


How Dean, kickass Guardian Angel, and Sam, his charge, saved the world

by gwevyan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Dean Winchester, Baby Sam, Drunk John, Gen, Protective Dean Winchester, Weechesters, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-20 02:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwevyan/pseuds/gwevyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean liked the guardian angel gig. Gabriel made him a kick-ass vessel, and his charges never needed more than an occasional glance. He's definitely never had to think about raising a kid. But those jobs were just a warm-up: for some reason Sammy Winchester's got Heaven and Hell after him, he's too often left all alone, and he refuses to believe that Dean's NOT as cuddly as a teddy bear. Castiel's welcome to stop laughing any time now.<br/>(read notes for notes about tags)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> rating may go up due to violence. an m/m relationship may be included and will be tagged if it does. there is NOT intent to include rape, or child abuse or neglect much beyond what I believe is canon.  
> in short: tags and archive warnings may change, so check before reading new postings! but this will probably be a mostly h/c fic with interludes of Dean being awesome, because I'm big on happy endings for everybody.

Dean squatted down on the carpet, old leather boots creaking slightly, and glared. "Those are part a part of history. Those are a symbol of your much-loved freedom to move. Those are a part of one of you little mud monkeys' very few, very awesome moments of genius. Those are _not_ chew toys."

Sam blinked wide hazel-brown eyes, gave him a big happy-baby smile with all two and a half teeth on show, and shoved the car keys back in his mouth.

"They're dirty," Dean tried. "All full of pocket germs and ignition grease."

Sam gnawed away happily, soothing his sore gums on the cold hard metal.

"Come on, dude. I can conjure up anything and everything in the universe for you to rub your molars on," Dean reminded him. "D'you want a giraffe with a rubber neck? One of those rawhide things they give bitey dogs?"

Sam cooed wetly at him around the keys. Dean sighed and shifted to sit next to Sam rather than across from him and leaned his back against the side of one musty old motel bed.

"At least you got good taste, kid," he allowed, and patted a hand gently on Sam's wispy mop of baby-soft brown hair.

Sam squealed at his touch and giggled delightedly, all inexplicable joy and chubby-cheeked dimples. Dean couldn't help smiling back.

~""~""~""~

He hadn't meant to stay with Sam. Yeah, sure, he'd stay, in an invisible, intangible, purely metaphysical sense- tuned in to baby Sammy's emotions and surroundings and only appearing when something was wrong. Except just a few hours after Dean knelt beside Sam in the back of John's car and briefly touched the boy's forehead to give him restful sleep before zapping away, he was called back into a dark motel room.

Absence of light doesn't mean much when you don't naturally rely on light waves to "see" anything. Dean peered around the room, muscles tense, trying to locate the source of the danger. It smelled of smoke, probably from John's clothes. And whiskey- probably from John, who lay snoring through the sleep of the seriously drunk on the queen bed. There was no cradle or cot, so where was Sam?

A distressed whimper made itself heard over the chainsaw rumbling of John's snores. Dean picked his way quickly towards the sound and knelt down on the carpet next to a navy blue duffle bag that had been set against the wall. Bright, wet hazel eyes peered out at him from the open zip.

Dean reached in and smoothed down Sam's little wisps of dark hair. John had probably figured the soft confines a duffle bag on the floor was safer than letting Sam sleep on a bed where he might fall off or get squashed, but the kid clearly wasn't happy about it. The bag smelled like tennis shoes and didn't offer any protection from the hard floor, and the room was too cold to have left Sam in a thin jersey onesie with no socks and just a small cotton crib blanket. Dean sighed and reached in to lift the boy up to his warm chest.

"First things first," he muttered, and zapped a pair of socks onto Sam's cold little feet. Then he thought up a green and white fleece blanket with little owls printed on it to wrap Sam up in, and a warmed bottle to hold to Sam's mouth, and lowered himself down carefully into the chair across from John's bed. The baby in his arms sucked at the bottle in sleepy contentment, and Dean settled in to wait. He'd lay Sam back in the duffle bag as soon as John started to stir. Maybe he could even slip the blanket in there, too; John wasn't really in a state to notice randomly appearing baby bedding.

~""~""~

Sam was an easy baby, for the most part. Not as easy as John thought, because whenever Sam fussed Dean was there to give him a quick little bounce or back rub while the older Winchester wasn't watching, but easy enough. He liked cuddles and apple sauce and to turn the pages while he was read to, and he didn't like building blocks because they clattered when the towers collapsed and it startled him if a piece hit him as it fell. He slept deeply through the night so long as Dean kept a wing over him and tended to wake only once or twice for the warm bottle Dean always had ready but John always forgot to prepare. John was a heavy sleeper, anyway, so he rarely woke to Sam's cries- but Dean didn't mind. The lack of an unknowing audience just made it easier for him to hold Sammy to his chest and sing him back to sleep.

And Sam didn't mind baths when Dean was the one giving them- which was usually the case; John seemed to think a baby boy allowed free reign of a cheap hotel room stayed clean on his own, and only needed a quick sponge bath every few days or so. Sam didn't mind sponge baths themselves, but John didn't use bath toys, and he wasn't careful about washing Sam's hair like Dean was. Dean liked Sam's hair. John used the same cheap shampoo he used for himself but it dried out the soft strands and stung Sam's eyes because he always refused to close them, so Dean used a concoction made by one of his 'nest-mates'- an angel he'd matured with who eventually became a guard rather than a guardian, but kept a strange affinity for bees and birds and plants.

"It makes him smell like a girl," Dean complained for what felt like the hundredth time. "Can't you put it together without all the flowery shit?"

Castiel merely gazed down at Sam with something a little softer than his usual impassive expression. "The fragrances you are noticing are produced by the best combination of herbs and plants I could devise that would clean his hair and scalp but not make him ill should he consume it or hurt his eyes should it get in them. Those were the criteria you gave me. If I take away the ingredients that give it fragrance I would be taking away the ingredients that make his hair soft and strong."

Dean grumbled but didn't say anything more; it was an old argument, after all, and if he was totally honest (which he only was with Sam), he didn't mind the smell so much. It made the kid smell like a wild garden after a light summer rain. The thin wet tendrils of Sam's hair curled around his fingers as he gently rubbed Castiel's oils into Sam's scalp, then loosened as he covered the boy's wide open eyes with one hand and poured a coffee mug of warm water over to rinse with the other.

"There we are," he said, setting the cup aside and grabbing Sam under the arms to heft him up to eye level. "One baby, without dirt or gross carpet gunk. Cas, throw us a towel."

Castiel took the soft blue towel Dean had snapped up earlier and wrapped it carefully around the squirming little body. Sam gurgled and bubbled. He liked Castiel well enough, but he'd learned that baths always meant cuddles afterwards when Dean swaddled him up in a towel and a blanket and wrapped the boy in his arms until his hair was all dry. Sam liked cuddles and warmth, and Dean tended to run warm. He didn't know if it was just one of those things, or if his angelic grace was burning tangibly under the thin skin of the homemade vessel Gabriel had cooked up for him one weekend, but perpetually warm hands meant Sammy never shied away from his touch so Dean didn't bother thinking about it too hard.

"Do you need anything before I return?" Castiel asked, rubbing the towel through one last pass over Sam's head before folding it carefully and setting it on the counter.

"Nah," Dean said, winding Sam's blanket around him in a practiced one-handed move and settling the contented baby in the crook of his arm. "You gotta go so soon though? Winchester set Sammy in the playpen with his toys and a bowl of cheerios before he left so I figure he'll be gone all afternoon. We got time to let the kid air-dry and watch TV for a while before he gets back."


	2. Chapter 2

John learned in the Marines how to play cards and pool for quick cash, and after the fire that took his wife he quickly learned how long a stolen credit card could be used. But in the spring of Sam's first birthday John hadn't yet honed these skills to perfection, and sometimes the family ran painfully low on cash. Fuel, ammunition, salt, lighter fluid, and diapers were always at the top of the shopping list. When funds were low, anything else had to be cut back or cut out.

"Here comes the airplane! Zoooom." Dean made buzzing sounds and swooped a spoonful of vegetable mush towards Sam's grinning mouth. "Aaaaand…incoming! Landing strip clear-" he gently pressed one finger on Sammy's chin to open the boy's mouth- "and down she comes." Dean deposited the spoon in Sam's mouth. The toddler smacked his lips and giggled.

"I do not understand why it is necessary to associate his food with vehicles," Castiel said with a frown, hands- unusually- tucked deep in his pockets. He obviously felt uncomfortable and awkward without his bulky trenchcoat, but Sam had spat his first mouthful of food a pretty impressive distance across the table and splattered Castiel's chest with green goo. Even Grace couldn't do much about baby spit with spinach, so the coat was sponged clean and drying over the back of a chair.

Dean sighed. "You wanna try?" he asked, one eyebrow raised. "Poor kid's so used to that cheap grocery store crap his dad keeps feeding him he barely recognizes this stuff you're making him as something to eat. At least this way he's willing to swallow it."

"What does his father think of Sam's diminished appetite? Presumably he eats less of the food his father offers him, now that you are feeding him full meals of this formula."

"If he thinks anything he's probably happy," Dean sneered, lining up another spoonful of mush and soaring it into Sammy's mouth. "Less appetite means less food he has to buy." Cas nodded, and Dean turned his full attention back to his charge. "Not that the stuff he buys is really food, huh, Sammy? Nuh-uh. No canned nutrition-free cat-food-style crap for _my_ baby boy. No way Jose. You like this stuff _way_ better, don't ya, Sammy? Huh? You like all this- Cas, what exactly is this stuff?"

"A highly nutritious and easily digested combination of fruits, vegetables, and herbs from the untainted gardens of Heaven and Earth," Castiel informed him gravely.

"Yeah, you like all this mushy peaches and pears and rabbit food Cas is bottling up for you, don't ya, Sammy boy?"

Sam gurgled and smiled happily, just like he always did when Dean talked to him and used his name. He opened his mouth wide and made a clumsy grab for the spoon. "De!"

Castiel's eyes widened. "Dean. I believe he is trying to communicate."

Dean twisted in his seat and raised an eyebrow. "Uh...yeah, Cas, that's what people do when they talk."

Castiel huffed a short breath through his nose impatiently. "His vocalizations have primarily consisted of random sounds and syllables. That was the fourth time in the last ten minutes that Sam has made the sound, 'De.'"

Dean turned back to Sam and zoomed another bite into the boy's open mouth, gaze intent on Sam's grabby little hands so he didn't have to look at his friend. "Yeah, well," he said casually. "He's not really doing 'n' yet, is he? 'De' is as far as he can get right now."

"De," Sam said again, as if to demonstrate. Dean scooped up some more mush and let Sam wrap his chubby fingers around the spoon, too.

"That's right, Sammy boy, I'm Dean, the one who's gonna throw this health-nut crap out the window and teach you all about cheeseburgers and onion rings as soon as you're a little bigger." Dean grinned at his boy. Sam had started making 'd' sounds over the last few weeks, and both John and Dean had figured he was gearing up to "daddy." But over the last few days the stuttered "duh"s had turned into "dee"s, and while John still expected a "daddy" any time now, Dean knew exactly who the kid was calling out to.

"He is attempting to say your name?" Castiel asked slowly, as if to clarify something he found very important. Probably did, fluffy-headed freak.

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, why not?"

"He has not yet made any indication of addressing his father, has he?"

Dean shrugged again, now trying to gently wrestle the empty spoon out of Sam's grasp. John had managed to scrounge up an old collapsible high chair from somewhere and brought it into the latest hotel, which admittedly made feeding Sam a hell of a lot easier than when he tried to do it holding the squirmy baby in his lap (he'd been around for a long time, okay? Sometimes he forgot about some of the relatively newer inventions), but the legs were a little uneven and Dean didn't want to rock the chair too much in case the whole thing fell apart. "John doesn't talk to him as much as I do. So what?"

"Dean," Cas began, in an even lower voice than usual. "You are aware of the implications-"

"De!" Sam suddenly squealed, then clamped his lips shut.

"No more? You all done?" Dean asked, grateful for the interruption. Sam threw his hands over his mouth. "Okay, okay. Look, I'm putting the spoon away. All done, right?"

Sam let his hands drop and opened his mouth again, well trained for what came next- only with Dean, as John had never witnessed Sam with teething pain and didn't think anything needed to be done, because Dean had never allowed Sam to suffer much teething pain at all.

"Good boy," Dean praised, and picked up the piece of gauze he had ready. "That's it, Sammy. Real quick, just like always. There we go." He kept up a steady murmur as he gently rubbed the gauze over Sam's gums, cleaning his few tiny teeth at the front and massaging his sore gums at the back.

"You could just clean his mouth and heal his gums with the Grace of God," Castiel pointed out. He usually questioned Dean's need to do things the long way- changing Sam's diapers by hand instead of just zapping them clean, singing and rocking him to sleep instead of just touching his forehead and putting him deep into rest. But Dean _liked_ doing these things by hand- not that he'd ever tell Cas, obviously, but still. Changing Sam's diapers was gross, sure, but it meant laying the kid out on the carpet and tickling his pudgy belly so he'd stay on his back and watching him squirm and shriek with glee as Dean's long fingers dug gently into his ribs and armpits. And Sammy was kinda cute when he snuggled into Dean's arms and yawned his little mouth wide open and cooed and mumbled along with whatever Metallica song Dean was using as a lullaby. Those tiny little fingers would always wrap tight around his shirt and the baby would slowly slip into sleep, warm and trusting and totally at peace.

"Yeah, I could," Dean told Castiel. "But then how will he learn to brush his teeth, huh? I can't be around twice a day to zap his mouth free of cavities and shit."

"Ah."

"Uh-huh." Dean nodded in satisfaction and threw the gauze into the trash, then lifted Sam out of his lap and set him on the floor. He conjured up a pile of thick paper and bowls of paint. "Go make a mess, Sammy."

Sam gurgled delightedly and smacked his hands into the paint.

Dean smiled at the kid's easy joy and leaned back in his seat.

~""~""~""~

When John switched from buying standard, moderately healthy baby food to the cheapest stuff gas stations offered, Dean started inspecting the bags every time he bought groceries to make sure the older Winchester wasn't skimping on anything else of Sammy's. John tended to buy hunting gear first, human gear second; so when they got stuck in a small down with no gambling action and few credit cards in the wallet, and John walked into the motel room with a new stash of ammunition and a second-hand Fed-style suit, Dean felt some distinctly un-angelic anger. There was no way John could have afforded all that _and_ a week in this dump of a motel without sacrificing something.

Sure enough, he was right, and he found out just how badly right when John changed Sam's diaper that evening.

Dean watched over John's shoulder, silently muttering insults about John's technique ("Sam _hates_ it when you pull the tabs that tight, it cuts into his belly cuz he likes to roll up like a bug and suck on his toes, not like _you_ ever bother cleaning his toes so he doesn't suck down something gross. Gonna have to loosen that as soon as his back's turned, what a fucking idiot…."), and frowned when John put the new diaper on without rubbing Sam's sensitive skin with cream first.

"Sorry, Sammy," John muttered. "But ammo's gotta come first, you know that, right? Gotta cut out anything else we can. Anyway, you probably don't even need that stuff anymore."

Sam furrowed his brow and shifted discontentedly. "De," he said unhappily.

John smiled and leaned over the kid. "That's right, Sammy, it's your daddy. Can you say 'daddy?'"

"De," Sam said louder.

"Come on, Sam," John encouraged. "Say 'daddy.'"

Sam wriggled harder. "De!" he shouted insistently.

John scowled and sat back on his heels. "Come on, Sam, what would Mary think if she saw you? A year old and you can't say a single word, can't even say the name of the guy who takes care of you?"

"He _is_ saying the name of the guy who takes care of him, you dick," Dean snapped, though John couldn't hear him. "Who the hell gets mad at their kid for not talking right on schedule, anyway?"

John pushed himself to his feet and started setting up the playpen around Sam, dropping in a couple pillows, a blanket, a sippy cup of milk, and the few toys the kid had. Well, that _John_ thought the kid had. Dean had whole piles of cool toys he gave Sam when John wasn't watching and took away again when he was. Even Cas had turned up one day, not long after John accidentally dropped Sam's teddy in an oily puddle and had to throw it away, with a stuffed toy so badly knitted and unidentifiable that Dean was sure the soldier angel had made it himself, despite stoic insistence to the contrary.

"I gotta go, Sammy," John said with a sigh. "There's some witch out here who might be able to give me some information. Be a good boy. I'll be back as soon as I can." He leaned into the playpen and kissed the top of Sam's fluffy head, and was gone.

There was a pause as Sam stared curiously at the door and Dean breathed slowly in and out, trying to calm himself down. It didn't work.

"Son of a _bitch_ ," he swore loudly.

Sam giggled, and reached his arms up. "De!"


	3. Chapter 3

It didn't take long for Sammy's delicate, sensitive skin to erupt with rash under the harsh, cheap diapers. Dean was torn between healing it immediately, because he couldn't stand to see Sam in pain, and leaving the rash to fester, so John could see what his choices were doing to the poor baby. In the end, he decided to leave it- after all, it'd look suspicious if the rash suddenly healed up all on its own. But leaving the rash didn't mean he had to leave Sam with the pain.

"Angel of God, my nestmate not-so-dear, to whom His love entrusts a shiny sword, get down here."

A flutter announced Castiel's arrival on the sidewalk outside Sam's motel room. "That's not how the prayer goes," he said with a frown. "Why are we outside?"

"Because Winchester Senior's in there and I didn't want you to land on him."

Castiel's wings rustled defensively. "That was only once," he said, voice as close to a whine as it ever got. "He moved at the precise moment that I transported to stand next to him."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Doesn't change the fact that you left everybody scrambling, trying to figure out how to explain a guy getting crushed from above while standing in the middle of a street. Who came up with that stupid tortoise and eagle story, anyway?"

"Aeschylus' guardian was given final responsibility for deciding on a story. I do not believe he has had a charge since." Castiel sounded a little guilty about that, Dean thought. _Poor guy_. He moved along.

"Right, so, I need you to make me some stuff to take care of Sammy's diaper rash without actually getting rid of it," he said.

Castiel frowned again. "I am a soldier," he reminded Dean. "Heaven has many dedicated healers and physicians who could make these things for you."

"Yeah, but they're all boring and wanna call me Hesedinel," Dean moaned. "Anyway, you like Sammy and Sammy likes you and you're not doing anything. You don't want him to suffer just so you can spend five extra minutes standing guard at the completely impenetrable gates of Heaven, do you?"

Cas was trying to look impassive and disapproving, but Dean could see him weakening.

"Come on," Dean wheedled. "His butt's all red and stinging. Poor little guy, huh? And I can't straight-out heal it or his dad will freak. Just go do your flower power fairy thing, okay?"

Castiel sighed. "I do not believe I would be following God's will if I were leave Sam in pain when it is within my power to ease his suffering," he allowed.

"There ya go," Dean beamed, slapping his unwitting minion on the shoulder. Cas cringed and shied away, then vanished.

~""~""~""~

Cas' salve was a smooth white cream that smelled faintly of the kind of herbs and flowers you'd find in medicinal gardens. Which was probably right, Dean figured, given that it seemed to cool Sam's hot, blotchy skin and soothe the pain right away. He quickly applied a first coat that night when John took a shower, briskly laying Sam out on the floor and yanking down his diaper (wet, as usual with John, who was apparently unable to smell as well as unable to understand Sam's obviously unhappy cries) to expose the angry red rash. Sam fidgeted miserably until Dean used his Grace to instantly put the poor baby on a new diaper.

"Here ya go, little guy," Dean murmured, scooping up some of the cream and gently rubbing it into Sam's lower half. "This'll make it all better, baby boy. This is from Uncle Cas, see? His stuff is always good, huh?"

Sure enough, a moment later the rash was just as red but nowhere near as hot, and Sam was wriggling with his usual excited anticipation of Dean's tickling fingers. "De," he bubbled happily.

"Good boy," Dean smiled. "Let's get you back in your cage before John comes out, huh? Don't worry, I'm gonna stay." He picked Sam up and stepped over the wall of the pen, settling cross-legged on the floor. Sam's rash was worse on his backside than his front so he lay Sam down on his belly, rubbing firm strokes up and down his back to both put him to sleep and keep him off his sensitive bottom.

"Soldier angel from Heaven so bright, not really watching beside me or leading me anywhere, keep your wings to yourself but nice one on the cream. And if you wanna sing lullabies, now's the time."

Cas didn't come, but Dean didn't really expect him to. John soon shut off the water and slouched out of the bathroom, staying awake long enough only to lay Sam on his back in the second twin bed, bolster the baby with pillows so he wouldn't roll off, kiss the boy's forehead, shut off the lights, and crash into his own bed. He was snoring within minutes.

Dean climbed carefully out of the playpen and set the pillows back against the headboard of Sam's bed and lay down, moving Sam to rest face down as a warm weight on his angel's chest.

"De," Sam mumbled, and nestled forward to breathe hot, wet puffs of air into Dean's neck as his little fists grasped his gray flannel shirt.

Dean twisted to press a kiss on Sam's head. "G'night, Sammy," he murmured. He tucked the fleece owl blanket (John had kept and never questioned it, after all) around his baby and rested one broad hand on Sam's back to keep him in place over his heart, feeling the beats synchronize and his Grace rise warmly in and around both of them at the feel of _his_ God-given charge held so close and safe, almost like they had been before Sam's bright little soul came down to earth. He settled in for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested, the prayers Dean bastardizes are:  
> Angel of God, my guardian dear,   
> To whom His love entrusts me here,  
> Ever this night/day be at my side,   
> To light and guard, to rule and guide.   
> And: Guardian angel from Heaven so bright,   
> Watching beside me to lead me aright,   
> Fold your wings round me and guard me with love,   
> Softly sing songs to me of Heaven above.  
> No guarantees Dean or Castiel will show up in response to either prayer (I've tried- no luck).


	4. Chapter 4

They were going to South Dakota- somebody named Bobby who John had apparently met or spoken to before. Winchester senior had been muttering under his breath the last day or two about leads, no leads, what the fuck is Aramaic, just stop fucking crying Sammy let Bobby deal with ‘im….

So. South Dakota.

They were still low on- or rather, out of- cash, though, so the two-day drive was a rough one. _It should’ve been three days_ , Dean thought sourly, slouched in the cramped back seat with his long legs stretched awkwardly to the opposite side so he could face Sam’s car seat. _Sammy needs changing and feeding more than every five hundred miles, you dick_. But John seemed determined to get the trip over with as soon as possible, so Dean secretly snapped the poor kid into a clean diaper whenever Sam wriggled uncomfortably. John was too distracted by the road to notice Sam’s startled expression in the rear-view mirror.

“Damn, Sammy. How does one tiny little thing make so much stink?” Dean muttered, yanking his t-shirt up over his nose as he reached out. The smell was obviously bothering the boy, too; he was wrinkling his little button nose and pale little eyebrows and kicking his feet unhappily. “Yeah, I know. You ready for this? Three, two, one-“

Sam’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open into a small O. A tricky little application of Grace, honed into non-standard directness by nights of drinking games with the Archangel Gabriel, plopped Sam into a clean, soft cloth diaper (gentler on his tender skin than the disposables, especially during the long car ride) and slicked Castiel’s ointment over the remaining rash. “De,” he cooed reverently.

Dean grinned smugly. “Uh-huh. Now, whaddaya say? Yellow mash a la Cas, or green mash a la Cas?”

Sam wriggled his toes and smiled. “De!”

“You sticking those stinky feet out at me? Huh? Let’s go with green.” Dean pulled the jar of green mash from his battered leather shoulder bag ( _not_ a man bag, okay? And the next angel or demon who so much as _thought_ those words would get fried in holy oil), unscrewed the top, and fished a toddler-sized spoon from a side pocket.

This part was a little tricky, too. John didn’t glance back in the mirror all that often- certainly not as often as Dean thought he should, considering he had a baby in the back seat, and all- but he’d probably notice Sam opening and closing his mouth like a fish for the half hour it usually took to get a full serving of food down him, so Dean perfected a way of slipping the spoon all the way into Sammy’s mouth and letting him suck the mush off the spoon as his angel slowly pulled the spoon back out from between his pressed lips. The growing boy still reached out to hold the spoon himself, but waving hands were nothing to cause suspicion. He might not be able to get through the whole jar, but it’d last them ‘til the next time Winchester Senior decided to take over.

~””~””~””~

“You okay back there, Sammy?” John asked, twisting in the front seat to look over his shoulder. ****  
“No thanks to you,” Dean muttered sullenly.

“De!” Sam squealed happily.

Dean glanced at him. “You really think it’s funny when I talk back to your daddy, huh?”

“Sorry, kid, but we don’t have the cash for a motel tonight. You don’t mind sleeping in the truck stop tonight, do ya?” John mumbled, already pulling the car into a parking space and killing the headlights.  
Dean bolted up straight, nearly smacking his head on the low roof. “What the hell do you mean, sleeping in the truck stop? You can’t make a baby sleep in a car! We’re up in the Rockies! It still gets freezing around here at night!”

“Hang on, Sammy, just gonna get your blanket….” John climbed out of the car and went around to the trunk. There was a soft squeaking as he popped it open, then a dull thud as he slammed it shut again. Dean watched with narrowed eyes as the older Winchester opened the door next to Sam and carefully draped his owlet blanket over him, tucking the soft fleece into the car seat.

“Yeah, and what were you gonna use if I hadn’t given you that, huh?” Dean sneered. “And why are you covering him up before you’ve fed him? He’s supposed to be grabbing at the spoon, you idiot, that’s how he works on his motor skills!”

“There we go,” John muttered, pressing the blankets tightly under Sam’s sides and shoulders. Sam squirmed uncomfortably and wrinkled up his forehead, kicking his feet under the blanket. “There we go. That’s better. Now you can’t yank the spoon out of my hand and make a mess, can you, boy?”

Dean stared. “Seriously? Did you actually learn anything about kids when you decided to have one, or did you think it was gonna be like getting a dog? Just feed it and pet it now and then and call it good, figure it’ll grow up right on instinct?”

John pulled a can of cheap, generic baby food out of his pocket- the kind that Dean thought looked like cat food, and probably tasted just as bad, judging by the way Sam’s mouth immediately pursed and he tried to push back in his car seat when John held a spoonful up to his mouth.

“Come on, Sammy,” John groaned. “Don’t get picky now.”

“ _Picky_?” Dean scoffed. “I’m so sorry your son is too _picky_ to go for cold reconstituted old vegetable stems now that he’s gotten used to eating formula of the finest toddler-safe foods on Heaven and Earth.”

John tried to push the spoon between Sam’s pressed lips. Sam grumbled and shook his head back and forth, kicking his heels. “De,” he grumbled.

John leaned in. “Yeah, Sammy, Daddy’s here with dinner. You gonna open up for me?” He tried shoving the spoon in again, but Sam wrenched his head sideways and ended up with a smear of minced mush all over his cheek.

“Sam!” John snapped. He set the can down on the car floor and used a free corner of Sam’s blanket to roughly scrub at his face. “Fine. You’re not hungry, you don’t have to eat. We’ll try again in the morning.” He slammed the car door shut so loudly that Sam jumped in his car seat and let out a soft whimper, then stalked around to the front, threw himself across the front bench, and locked the doors. The car was silent for a tense ten minutes while Dean gently petted Sam’s head to keep him quiet and John twisted around in the front, trying to get comfortable. Finally, John started snoring, and Dean let out a breath he didn’t know he’d held.

“Alright, Sammy,” he breathed, and peered over the seat backs to make sure John really was deeply asleep. Reassured, Dean carefully pulled Sammy out of constraints and settled the boy in a comfortable face-down sprawl across his lap. Sam immediately took advantage of his new freedom to fling out his limbs.

“De?” Sam gurgled. There was still a little wrinkle between his eyebrows, so Dean smiled.

“That’s right, baby boy. Stretch out those arms and legs, huh? ‘S been a long day,” he encouraged, rubbing soothing circles into Sam’s back and hips. After John’s fiasco Dean wasn’t really surprised to find that Sammy didn’t seem interested in eating, so when the toddler stopped wriggling around, he hauled his baby up to rest easy on his chest, tucked the owlet blanket in carefully, and wrapped his arms around the kid’s back to hold in the warmth. Sam nestled his head down into the hollow of Dean’s shoulder, gave a few wet sighs, and settled easily into sleep, one hand clutching his blanket and the other curled tightly into Dean’s jacket. Dean kept a sharp watch out the window through the night, gently finger-combing Sammy’s curls whenever he woke up enough to fuss.

They'd see about this Bobby Singer tomorrow. And John, Dean thought to himself as Sam sighed out a soft " _De, De, De_ " in his sleep and smacked his dry lips, was just about out of chances.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thanks so much for all the well-wishes, everyone! Things are good :) And I'm making myself feel better with a new, entirely related tumblr: SchoolofWinchester. Check it out.
> 
> Second: Ugh. Had a hard time getting in the groove on this one, but I tried and tried and couldn't make it flow better so I'm posting anyway. Seriously, do you know how hard it is to write Dean when Sam isn't a talking, active character? I know we all joke and write and gif about them being two halves of a whole, but honestly, you don't know until you try to write one of them entirely alone- not just a story with only one of them because the other is somewhere else or dead or whatever, but just one because there only _is_ one. Their characters just don't work without each other. Dean can't fully be _Dean_ without Sam there as the catalyst to _make_ him be Dean.
> 
> And that's why they're soulmates, folks.

Bobby Singer was going to be trouble; Dean knew it the moment they climbed out of the car.

John pulled the car to a stop in front of a battered old house in the middle of a dusty junk yard. He was in a pretty good mood, as Sam had been hungry enough before they set off at five am that morning to reluctantly go ahead and choke down some of the canned food with minimal complaining. The door up on the front porch opened before John was all the way out of the car.

"'Bout time," a heavy-set man in dirty jeans and a blue plaid shirt said gruffly as he stepped outside. "Was beginning to think you'd got lost."

"Nah, just Sam being fussy this morning," John replied, and moved forwards as the man walked down the stairs to shake hands. "Thanks for letting me bring him, Singer. I know you're not used to having a baby around but I don't really have anywhere to leave him."

"Well, bring 'im inside," Singer said. "I still got an old puppy gate so I took most of the stuff out of one of the spare rooms and put the gate in the door. He'll be safe in there."

"Thanks," John said, this time with genuine gratitude in his voice. Dean sighed, rubbing Sam's wispy hair between his fingers as Sam stared, enthralled, at the new man. He wanted to resent John for sounding so enthusiastic at the chance to put his baby down in a room and forget about him for a while without feeling at least a little guilty like he did at the motels, but he couldn't- not completely, anyway. It was still a dickish move, but John never expected to be a single dad, after all. Hell, he probably figured he wouldn't be much a part of Sammy's life until the kid was big enough to play catch. Even good, normal parents wanted a little break now and then.

"I'll never want a break from you," he told Sam. Sam turned with big brown eyes, and blew a spit bubble.

John opened the passenger door and reached in to unclip Sam from his car seat and haul him out. Dean scrambled out after him. "How do you never notice the clips are different?" he asked the man for what felt like the hundredth time. "Seriously. You put your kid in his car seat and strap him in. You come back to take him out, and the straps are all in different places. The _right_ places. How have you never noticed that?"

John didn't answer, of course. He boosted Sam up in his arms and turned back to Singer. "This is my son Sam," he said, smiling wearily. "He was kinda cranky last night and this morning, so don't worry about it if he doesn't take to you right away. He's an easy going kid and he's usually pretty quiet."

"Because I _keep_ him quiet, you moron," Dean muttered sullenly, leaning back against the car with his hands in his pockets so he wouldn't be too tempted to reach out and snatch Sam back to where he belonged.

Then he straightened abruptly as Singer's eyes slid right past Sammy to where Dean was standing. Dean threw a hand behind his back, reaching for his sword. "Christo," he snapped quickly.

Singer didn't so much as flinch, and his eyes flicked back to where Sam clung awkwardly to his father with one hand while the other thumb slid into his mouth.

"Well, hi there, Sammy," Singer said, a smile just visible under his rough beard.

Dean watched closely as Singer reached out and jokingly shook Sam's saliva-covered hand with two big fingers. He was probably only a little older than John, maybe even the same age or a little younger if he smoked. He definitely spent a lot of time outside, judging by the weather-beaten face. He wore a ratty old clothes and a mangy old ball cap and didn't let off any feel of demon or magic, so Dean relaxed slightly. Maybe the guy was just a little psychic or something, and had felt Dean's angelic presence? That sort of thing used to be common enough, but he hadn't come across anyone so sensitive in a long time.

Well. Except in that one nunnery, during that dare Gabriel got from some satyr named Giorgio that turned out to be a two-man job so he dragged Dean along…. But they don't talk about that.

Still unsettled and wary, his feathers ruffled and his wings itching to come out, Dean followed Singer, Winchester and Sammy inside the house.

~""~""~""~

The spare room turned out to be an old spare bedroom Singer was clearly using as a sort of library-slash-office, but he'd taken away all the books on the lower shelves and the rolling desk chair, locked the desk drawers, and shifted a sharp-cornered filing cabinet out into the hallway. The long cord for the wall-mounted phone had been taped up high, and the cord for the window blinds had been looped up well out of a toddler's reach. The room was empty save for the heavy desk, the baby-proofed bookcase, a few pillows and worn quilts, a couple tall, sturdy (Dean immediately tested) stacks of cardboard boxes, and a big, thick sheepskin rug that looked rather out of place with the rest of the décor- or rather, lack of- in the house and which Dean suspected Bobby had bought or moved in here just so a little boy wouldn't have to crawl and lie down on the cold wood floor.

Dean reappraised Bobby Singer, and cautiously approved.

There was also a small stack of children's books sitting on the desk. Dean raised an eyebrow, and John must have done the same, because Bobby answered the unasked question with a shrug.

"Got a few things at the library," he said. "I know you probably got heaps of your own but I figured new ones might distract him longer, make him happier about staying in a new house for a while."

"Yeah, Winchester," Dean snapped, pleased that Singer seemed to think pretty well of kids for a guy who didn't have any of his own. "Bet you've got _heaps_ of books for your boy, huh? Your boy who loves turning pages and being read to? Or are you too busy buying Latin dictionaries and folklore stories to spend any time picking out picture books? Or, you know, actually reading them to him?" It was a sore spot for Dean, knowing how utterly elated Sam got every time he snapped up a book and settled Sam down in his lap so he could clumsily turn the pages at Dean's prompting. He giggled delightedly every time Dean growled for the tigers or dragons, and squealed with laughter when Dean bounced him on his lap whenever a character was walking or riding.

John didn't have any kid's books to read to Sam.

John shrugged, setting Sam down on the other side of the closed puppy gate. Sam looked around, his expression confused and a little upset until Dean settled down beside him and stroked his back. "Thanks, but Sam's too young to be reading yet," John said, reaching over and patting Sam's head. "Not even talking yet, really. He says 'Dee' sometimes but I haven't gotten a full 'Daddy' out of him. If he doesn't get going pretty soon I might have to take him into a doctor somewhere, see if he's slow."

Singer blinked a few times, apparently as dumbstruck as Dean. "Huh," he said, finally.

"Be a good boy, Sammy," John told his son, then turned back to the other hunter. "You said you had some background on Yellow-Eyes?"

"...Yeah," Singer said, clearly a little discomfited. "I got a stack of stuff to start with out in the kitchen, mostly mentions we're gonna have to decide on whether they're talking about the right thing or not. Then we can go from there."

John grinned with all his teeth, clearly energized by the thought of finally having some hard information. He started heading over to the kitchen.

"Aren't you gonna-" Bobby started, then stopped himself, and coughed gruffly. "You wanna get Sam's toys and stuff out of the car? I'll start some coffee, have it ready by the time you got him all settled in."

John stared blankly as though Sam actually needing anything hadn't occurred to him. "Yeah, I guess," he shrugged finally. "He's pretty good about keeping himself entertained but he might need a diaper pretty soon."

Dean watched Singer watching John stride back out to the car.

"Idjit," Singer spit under his breath. The scruffy man turned back to Sam and stepped carefully over the puppy gate, unfolded the two quilts and spread them out and placed the pillows on top. "There ya go, Sammy," he said with a smile, squatting down in front of the wide-eyed boy. "Now you have a good place to take a nap. You hungry?"

"De," Sam said seriously.

"Yeah, that's right, Sammy," Dean murmured. "If you're hungry, I'll feed you the good stuff. You don't have to worry about it coming from your daddy again."

Singer looked thoughtful, though. "Dee, huh?" he said, more like he was talking to himself than to Sam. Then he focused again. "Well, I got some cheerios and applesauce and grapes for ya. Even peeled the grapes, 'cus I don't remember how old babies have to be before you can give 'em whole ones. And let me tell you, boy," he said with a mock scowl, gently poking Sam in the belly. Sam giggled and squirmed. "Peelin' all those little grapes was a bigger bitch than smokin' out a nest of ghouls, so you better eat all of 'em up and like 'em!"

Dean couldn't help grinning as Singer carefully tickled Sammy's belly and armpits, a soft smile breaking out under the scroungy beard as the boy shrieked and rolled happily under his broad fingertips. The hunter straightened and toughened right back up again when John returned, but Dean could see the disbelief and traces of anger in his face when all John put in for his kid was the diaper bag, the owlet blanket, a few ragged stuffed toys, and a car-temperature bottle of formula before climbing back over the gate and looking expectantly at his host.

It wasn't just the lack of stuff that was upsetting Singer- Dean could tell by following the way his eyes flicked from the worn out, scratchy, one-eyed teddy bear to the brand new, high quality shoulder holster just showing under John's jacket. Clearly, this hunter's priorities were closer aligned to Dean's than John's. This was good. If Sammy just stayed in a sweet mood and and kept flashing those dimpled, tiny-toothed smiles, maybe Singer's place could end up being some kind of safe house if Dean ever needed to whisk Sam away and didn't want the interference that would surely come if he tried to hide his charge somewhere angel-made. Guardian angels weren't technically supposed to be quite so hands-on, after all. Dean just didn't care about the rules, and Sam was something special.

When Singer and Winchester were settled in the kitchen, deep in discussion over some medieval allegory, Dean threw himself down onto one of the quilts, pulled Sam up to lay high enough on his chest that his idly kicking feet wouldn't come into contact with any important bits of his angel, and picked up one of Singer's books.

"Milton the moose was having a very bad morning…."


	6. Chapter 6

They had been in Sioux Falls for two weeks, and Dean hoped they stayed longer. Singer was definitely alright, even when it came to Sam- and Dean had seriously high standards when it came to trusting people with Sam. Heavenly high. Not even Gabriel got to watch him alone anymore, Archangel though he was, after the time Dean and Cas came back from scoping out John's hired babysitter to find Sam's face, hands, and hair covered in chocolate, sticky sugar syrup, and cake crumbs.

But Singer, Dean decided, was alright. He hadn't actually said anything to John about his parenting skills but he made plenty of snide comments under his breath, often near-exactly echoing Dean- except for the one time he swore impressively at John for setting Sam down on the sofa while he searched for a book in the study-slash-library, and Sam nearly rolled right off- _would_ have rolled right off, if Dean hadn't lunged forward to corral him at the last second.

Singer went out to several different stores in the first week so that the house was now fully stocked for a year-and-a-bit-year-old boy. Completely ignoring John's protests, he'd bought toys, proper bedding, actual baby soap and shampoo, decent baby food and snacks (though Dean swapped what he could out for Castiel's stuff anyway), and baby-safe foods that he kept chopped up in containers in the fridge. John, when he noticed that Sam seemed hungry between meal times, tended to hand the kid a bottle or an easy bowl of cheerios. Singer would grab one of the containers and hand Sam small pieces of canned pears and peaches, black beans, and shredded bits of cheese and soft chicken.

"It's called protein, Sam," Singer said, the first time he handed Sam a bit of chicken and the boy scrunched up his face at the unfamiliar texture as he chewed. "I'm guessin' you don't get a whole lotta whole food, goin' by the kinda stuff your daddy brought in." Dean had grinned unapologetically at that. "But don't worry, kid, it don't matter if he thinks you gotta have all your teeth before you can chew anything. I'm gonna feed you like a real little man."

On one of the shopping trips he came home with a punnet of blueberries for Sam. Dean remembered that he'd read something, somewhere, sometime that said babies up to 18 months old could choke on blueberries and their skins, so he snapped the punnet out of existance as soon as Singer shut the fridge door. The hunter was confused and snappish about it until he decided he must've left them at the store, and only thought he remembered putting them away.

"Maybe you're just getting old," John suggested.

"Maybe you're just going to bed without dinner tonight," Singer retorted.

John smirked. "Fine. A ghost got into your salted, warded house and stole your blueberries."

"Yep, I think it did," Singer replied, suddenly serene as he leaned back against the old refrigerator. "Well, since I'm old and past it, you better get your young ass out there and check all the salt lines and fence carvings."

He fed Sam banana pieces that afternoon instead, while Dean carefully vetted the rest of the groceries and John stumped irritably around the scrap yard perimeter.

The gruff hunter was big on Sam feeding himself, too, Dean was relieved to see. For the first few days, the three humans ate their meals together with Sam in a sturdy wooden high chair Singer had bought, and John was just as frustrated by Sam's spoon-grabbing and mess-making as he had been in the car. Eventually Singer suggested that he feed Sam while he cooked and John stay in the other room poring over texts.

"It makes more sense this way," Singer reasoned, and John looked too grateful to even put up a pretense of arguing. "You know what you're looking for better than I do, so you might as well keep reading. You can't cook worth a damn so I'll be in the kitchen every time anyway, it don't take any extra effort to feed the kid while I'm doin' it."

It _did_ take extra effort, really, but that's because Singer did it right- so right that Dean didn't mind stepping back and making faces over the man's shoulder while Sam giggled and stuffed pieces of noodles covered in pureed spinach, cheese, and tomatoes into his mouth. Singer didn't mind Sam smearing handfuls of avocado all over his face, and he always handed Sam the spoon, and he offered Sam an open plastic cup of juice to drink as well as a bottle of milk whenever he was eating, no matter how much spilled down Sam's shirt or onto the floor. He always cleaned and changed Sam before calling his father in to dinner, and John didn't seem to be any the wiser.

Singer had taken over bath time from John, too. He wasn't as good as Dean, and he didn't have the toys Sam always liked Dean to snap up, and his baby soaps weren't as good as the ones Cas made, but he _did_ have bath toys that he didn't mind Sammy splashing around with, and he used all his hunt-trained concentration and steady hands to keep the shampoo out of Sammy's eyes. He even tickled Sammy's belly before letting him out of the water.

"Wish you could've been his instead," Dean murmured, stroking one finger down the soft curve of Sam's back as the boy lay pillowed on his chest. Singer had bought a crib along with the high chair, but Sam was used to sleeping with Dean, and tried uselessly to climb the bars after being laid down alone. Dean waited until both Singer and John had gone to bed, then lifted his fussy baby out and settled down on the folded quilts on the floor.

"Of course, if you _were_ his, I wouldn't be down here, would I? I'd be out wandering or back upstairs with all the other guardian angels whose charges have perfectly good lives, or I'd be down here trailing around invisible and you'd never know I was here."

Sam blinked slowly at him, then squeezed his eyes shut and nestled his face down into the worn fabric of Dean's t-shirt. Dean sighed again and rubbed slowly up and down Sam's back with his whole hand, fingers and thumb wrapping around the sides of the tiny rib cage.

"Don't hate me for it, Sam, but I'm glad you're not his."

~""~""~""~

Dean had been on earth long enough to see plenty of human kids grow up, so he knew the course of child development pretty well. He also devoured every relevant book he could find whenever John brought Sam to the library with him. So a few days later, when Sam suddenly looked up from playing on the study floor with the soft-sided building blocks Singer had bought him and spotted Dean across the room and immediately hauled himself unsteadily to his feet with the side of the sofa, Dean knew exactly what was about to happen. He set aside the book he'd been surreptitiously reading (why Singer had Japanese comics tucked away in the bookshelves he had no idea, but he wasn't going to pass them up, either), sitting in the opposite corner of shelves from Sam while Singer and John sat together at the desk with their heads down. He opened his arms, grinning.

"Come on, Sammy boy. You wanna come over here with me?"

"De!" Sam giggled happily.

"What's up, Sam?" John asked without looking up. Singer did look, and his eyebrows shot up.

"Might want to turn an eye over at your boy, Winchester," he said, a smile spreading across his face. "Looks like Sammy's about to give us a show."

"Huh?" John twisted in his chair and leaned up over the desk, frowning at Sam. "What's he doing?"

Singer rolled his eyes. "He's tryin' to walk, idjit. Watch."

Sam stuck one foot out like a cartoon character dipping one toe in the water, then wobbled and plopped down on his bottom. He frowned and hauled himself back upright again, stuck the same foot back out, and overbalanced again. He looked up at Dean, lip wobbling a little. "De," he said plaintively.

"Come on, buddy," Dean said encouragingly. "You can do it, I know you can. You wanna come over here? Come sit by me? I know you can take those steps, Sammy."

Sam furrowed his brow in a determined little glare and pulled back up to his feet.

"Good boy, Sam," John called. "Come on, come over here to daddy."

Dean refused to look over at him. Sam only had eyes for his angel, anyway; he wasn't paying his father the slightest bit of attention. "Come on, Sammy," he urged. Then, he remembered something important. "Cas! Castiel, where the hell are you? Whatever you're doing, drop it and get over here! Now!"

There was a soft flutter and Castiel appeared crouched at Dean's side, one arm out as if to shield him from an attack. "What?" he panted. "What is it? What's happened? Where is Sam?"

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved Castiel's arm away. He pointed over at Sam. "Look! I think he's gonna start walking!"

The fight went out of Castiel in an instant and he dropped to sit cross-legged next to Dean, peering intently at the baby staring determinedly their way. Sam suddenly let go of the sofa and wobbled for a long moment, teetering backwards and forwards on his heels and toes. Then he fell to his bottom again.

"Oh, come on, Sam," John groaned. "You almost had it that time! Come on, Sam, come to Daddy!"

Dean, Castiel, and Singer all ignored him and watched Sam closely. "Come on, Sam," Castiel murmured, leaning forward a little more as Sam got back to his feet. "Thank you for calling me, Dean. I am glad not to miss this."

"Well, yeah," Dean shrugged. "I mean, you care about him too."

"De," Sam called softly. He looked apprehensive, but brightened when he spotted Castiel and angled himself more in the other angel's direction.

"When did he start attempting to reach you?" Castiel asked, utterly absorbed in the little boy in front of them.

Dean grinned. "It's exciting, isn't it?" he chuckled, nudging Cas' side. "He just started doing this, like, thirty seconds before I called you. Two ups and downs. You haven't missed anything. He's so gonna make his way over here on his own two feet today, man."

Castiel frowned a little. "Won't John Winchester wonder why his son chose to take his first steps towards a bookcase instead of towards his father?" he asked, eyes not leaving the little boy tilting precariously forward on his toes.

"Nah," Dean scoffed. "He already thinks Sammy's _slow_ or something, remember?"

"De," Sam whined.

"Over here, buddy," Dean called back. "Right here. Look, Cas is here, too."

"Come on, Sam," John said again. "That's right, Daddy's over here. God, look at him, Bobby. He's not even tracking my voice over here. You think he needs glasses or something?"

"Or something, maybe," Singer said slowly.

"Don't listen to the idiots, Sammy, come sit with Castiel and me," he encouraged, opening his arms up for the kind of big squeezy bear hug Sam liked to fall into.

Sam pulled himself to his feet. He let go, tottered a little bit to one side, then put one foot forward to save his balance. He tilted to the other side, and put the other foot forward. Then it was one, two, three unsteady steps straight towards Dean, a beaming, dimpled smile on his face even as the fourth step faltered and he went down.

"That's my boy!" Dean crowed, fist-pumping the air and jostling Castiel. "Way to go, Sammy!"

"Well done, Sam," Cas said warmly.

"De!" Sam squealed, rolling happily on the floor. He stopped on his belly and pushed himself up with his hands, taking two false starts before he made another couple of steps towards Dean and Castiel. This time Dean scooted forward and flopped down on his stomach, getting nose to nose with Sam on the floor so he could carefully tickle the kid's sides and plant a hard kiss on his forehead without John and Singer noticing.

"That's my boy," he growled playfully. "Yeah, you're one awesome little guy, you know that, Sammy? Yes you _are_."

"Good job, Sam," John sighed, and Dean glanced up to see the older Winchester already turning back to the desk. "Maybe next time we'll work on going the right direction."

But Dean wasn't paying any attention to John. He was completely and utterly focused on Singer, who was staring straight back at him.


	7. Chapter 7

With Kappa Taicho's meet'n'greet scene, because her idea was way better than mine XD Thanks!

* * *

"I think that calls for a celebration," Singer said finally, turning his eyes away to look back at John.

If Dean had needed to breathe, he'd've been gasping. He wanted more than anything in the world at that moment to scoop Sammy up and throw his wings out to make a shield with Cas', already swept up in a soldier's trained reaction to a threat. Dean could see the shuddering black mass of Castiel's impenetrable feathers behind them in the corners of his vision in both eyes. But he was frozen still as stone, barely able to feel Cas' hand clamped hard on his shoulder.

"Huh?" John had already sunk himself back in the books, and Dean rustled up enough feeling past his shock to be annoyed at the fact that the idiot apparently couldn't care less about his son's big milestone.

"We're celebratin' your son taking his first steps," Singer said, slowly and clearly. "Go to the store, buy a cake or somethin'."

John looked like he was going to argue, lifting his hands to gesture at the messy desktop, but Singer cut him off before he could get started.

"The books need a break from your ham fists anyway," Singer rumbled. "Some of these are old and fragile, they can't be slammed around and pulled on for too long or they'll get damaged. Go buy us a cake, I'll look after Sammy 'til you get back."

Dean watched with narrowed eyes and tensed shoulders as Singer ambled around the desk and hefted Sam up into his arms, getting a squirm and a squeaky "De!" out of the boy as he was suddenly and unexpectedly lifted off the floor. Dean clenched his fists. He didn't know what Singer _was_ , so he couldn't just charge in sword raised and risk hurting Sam.

"Yeah, I know, it's all about 'Dee,' huh?" Bobby answered, hoisting Sam up and over his hip so they could look each other in the face properly. "Don't you worry, I'm not takin' you away from Dee." He turned slightly, and Dean found himself staring almost eye to eye with the hunter again.

"Dean," Castiel said tersely. "Sam may not be safe with him. I do not know what we're dealing with. He is not a demon or a witch, I cannot detect any trace of magic or angelic or hellish power-"

"I _know_ , Cas," Dean growled through gritted teeth. "I don't know what the hell he is either, but we can't just grab Sam and run for it. Unless you can be sure about taking him down first?"

"He has not attempted to harm Sam in any of the times that they've been out of John Winchester's sight," Castiel muttered. "He has been caring of Sam and given no indication of noticing either of us. Perhaps we should hesitate to use violence without further information."

"I don't care what he _has_ been doing, he hurts one hair on my kid's head and he'll be picking up pieces of himself from all corners of the earth," Dean snapped.

"You need anything else while I'm out there?" John asked as he grabbed his leather jacket off a hook in the hallway (not nearly as cool as his, Dean couldn't help thinking, just as he did every time), apparently resigned to going out.

"Whatever you want for dinner for the next few days," Singer said, and gently tugged the ends of Sam's wispy hair. Sam giggled and batted at his hands, and Dean scowled. Sam usually only giggled for _him_. "I got everything Sam's gonna need for a while. Get some meat."

John grunted in reply, fished his keys out of his pocket, and opened the door.

"Oh, and Winchester," Singer called, hoisting Sam back up on his hip as the kid got bored of sitting still and tried to wriggle down to the floor.

"Yeah?" John said, one hand on the doorknob.

"You gotta remember," Singer said seriously, and gently placed a finger over Sam's lips to stop him grumbling for a second.

"What?" John asked, sounding a little nervous.

"Lemon and chocolate taste like shit together, so make sure you know for certain what flavor of cake you got before you get the ice cream," Singer said seriously.

John bared his teeth with a growl and let the door slam shut behind him.

Dean had followed them into the hallway, not about to let Sam out of his sight while held in that _thing_ ' _s_ grip. Castiel hovered at his shoulder, projecting a militant sort of calm that kept Dean from absolutely blowing up.

For about two seconds.

"You are NOT feeding MY KID any STORE-BOUGHT GODDAMNED SUGAR-BOMB CAKE!" he bellowed.

"De?" Sam piped up, twisting in Singer's arms.

"Don't worry, Sammy, I'm gonna get you back real quick," Dean promised him. He wished he could at least touch the hand Sam was stretching out to him, but he was wary about getting too close to Singer until they knew exactly how far the hunter's awareness of them went.

"Deee," Sam whined, twisting even farther so he could reach out with both arms.

"You want Dee, huh?" Singer asked Sam, looking intently back in Dean's direction. "Well, let's see what we can do about that."

"Do? What do you mean, _do_?" Dean asked sharply.

Singer wandered back into the study and set Sam down at his pile of blocks, then went to what looked like a dirty chemistry set spread out over a few shelves and brought several pieces back to the desk.

"Watch Sam," Dean snapped to Cas. He didn't need to, really. The other angel had peeled away the second Singer set Sam down and knelt beside him, one wing held out and wrapped loosely around the boy. Sam leaned happily back into the warm, soft feathers, and sweetly offered Castiel a green block.

"That Dee there with you now, Sammy?" Singer muttered, hunting through his bookshelves and pulling out small leather bags and carved wooden boxes.

Sam looked at him, then up at Castiel, then back at Singer. "Gah," he said, and frowned.

Dean frowned, too. "What's up, Sammy? What's got you makin' that face?"

"Gah," Sam said again, and frowned harder. He made the sound again, this time in a frustrated shriek. "Gah!"

Dean stared down at him. From the corner of his eye, he could see Singer doing the same, hands paused on one of the pieces of equipment. "Sam," Dean said at last. "Sammy, are you trying to say 'Cas'?"

"Kah!" Sam repeated.

Suddenly not caring at all about Singer, Dean grinned and squatted down. Castiel had a strange expression on his face- made stranger because he didn't usually have _any_ expression. Sort of half disbelieving, half completely thrilled, Dean guessed. He only knew because that's how he'd felt the first time Sam really tried to say 'Dean.'

Then there was a _bang_ behind him that made Sammy let out a startled screech, and Dean went back to caring about Singer.

The hunter had something boiling on one of the chemistry sets and was holding a brass bowl of something else that puffed out thick, black smoke.

"I charge you," Singer intoned in horribly accented Latin, "to reveal yourself, demon. I charge you to withdraw from the spirit of the child you have claimed. I charge you-"

The smoke quickly filled the room enough to drift its way over to their corner. Sam wrinkled up his nose at the acrid stench.

"I charge you-" Singer boomed out.

Sam started to cry.

"Oh, that is _so_ enough," Dean snarled. He cleared the smoke from the room, leaving Singer looking dumbfounded as his little spells and potions all suddenly vanished. Then he finally, finally scooped Sam up into his arms, cradling his boy into his chest, and clicked his fingers.

Singer stared at him- properly this time, now that Dean had made himself visible to this one human.

"Dude, what the fuck," Dean snapped. He pet Sam's hair, bouncing the kid gently even though he'd more or less stopped crying the second Dean picked him up. "No more smoke and shit, okay?  Quit it.  Sam doesn't like it."

"Huh," Singer said. His eyes moved slowly over to Castiel, and Dean realized his nestmate must have made himself visible, too. He'd put his wings away first, though. "Didn't realize there was more than one of you." He crossed his arms and stared intently back and forth between them for a long minute, clearly not missing the way Sammy snuggled happily into Dean's hold. Then the hunter shook his head and made his way around them, into the kitchen. "You two want a beer?" he called over his shoulder.

Dean and Castiel looked at each other. Dean shrugged, and followed into the kitchen. "Sure."


	8. Chapter 8

If you've already read this WIP before November, please go back and read chapter seven because I edited it lots. Plus I had to split it differently than I originally planned so the chapters would be more reasonable lengths. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Castiel put a hand out to stop him, a warning look in his eyes. "Dean, I don't think-"

"Oh, relax," Dean scoffed. "His Latin was shit, his spell was stupid wicca stuff made up by a thirteen-year-old girl on the internet, and he can only actually see us now we _allowed_ him to see us. He's not dangerous, he's just one of those weird angel-sensitive people."

"There's nothing wrong with my Latin," Singer's brusque voice said from behind the refrigerator door. He emerged with three beers in one hand and one of Sam's little containers of snacks in the other. He gestured at the toddler held securely up and clinging to Dean's shoulder. "You think he wants milk or juice, in a cup or a bottle?"

Dean snorted. "What am I, the baby whisperer? I don't know, just give him both."

Singer nodded and set the beers and container on the table, then poured milk and apple juice into a bottle and a plastic cup. He set those on his side, and held his hands out.

Dean stared at him.

Singer made grabby motions with his fingers. "Gimme the kid."

Dean twisted away and squeezed Sam tighter, getting a squeak of protest. "No way, man. Mine."

Singer glanced over at Castiel like he was expecting an argument from that corner, too, but Cas just stood there and did his wide-eyed intimidation. "I'm gonna make us lunch, and you have a lot of questions to answer. Gimme the kid," Singer said again.

"Why can't I hold him and talk? Or he can play on the floor while I talk. Or he can go sleep, he hasn't had a nap yet today and he'll start yawning soon as he sits still. You don't have to hold him. You _can't_ hold him if you're making lunch," Dean added triumphantly, stroking a hand firmly up and down the back of Sam's head to settle him back down. Just because he didn't think Singer was a threat didn't mean he was going to give up Sammy-duty now he didn't have to.

Singer stared him down, and Dean was unnerved to find that it felt a little bit like getting pinned under the eye of Michael after dying a whole garrison's wings pink. "I don't want you gettin' distracted by those apple cheeks," he said severely. "And if I can shoot two ghosts at the same time I can sure as hell make lunch with one hand and hold a half-asleep kid with the other. So sit your ass down and drink your goddamned beer at the table like a civilized person, and gimme the kid."

Dean scowled, but he reluctantly passed Sam into Singer's waiting arms and slouched into a chair, popping the beer cap off with his thick silver ring. Castiel sat next to him, stony-faced, and didn't touch his drink.

"That one talk at all?" Singer asked, nodding to Cas as he pulled a bag of lunchmeat out of the fridge, Sam settled securely on his hip. The boy was looking around curiously but already slumping a little, one thumb sneaking up into his mouth as he rested his head on Singer's shoulder.

Dean shrugged and played with the label on his bottle. "If he's got somethin' to say, sure," he replied. "Get him started on bees and you can't shut him up."

"Bees, huh?" Singer lined up jars and bottles of condiments on the counter, and took a loaf of bread out of a drawer. "So, I guess the first question is: what the hell are you two?"

"We are angels of the Lord," Castiel answered gravely before Dean could come up with some kind of smart ass response. _He knows me too well_ , Dean thought mournfully. "I am Castiel, a soldier of Heaven, and Dean is a guardian. Sam Winchester is his charge."

Singer snorted out a guffaw. "Angels, huh? What, fluffy clouds and harps and things?"

Castiel frowned, even as Dean groaned and tried to kick him into silence. "We are not musicians. I told you, I am a soldier of-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Singer interrupted, waving a hand to cut him off. He stopped slathering mayonnaise on bread and turned around, resting his free hip against the counter. "You wanna pull the other one?"

Castiel, predictably, looked completely confused. "Dean," he murmured. "What is it that he wants us to pull on?"

Dean slapped a hand over his eyes. "Look," he said to Singer, peeking up through his fingers. "What do you want us to do? We've both got wings. See?" He released the Grace that kept his wings invisible and intangible, and next to him, Castiel did the same. A moment later the room was almost suffocating, filled with a mix of Castiel's shiny blue-black feathers and Dean's softer, tawny-brown ones.

"Yeah, you got wings, alright," Singer drawled. Somewhere through the mess of feathers Dean could hear Sam giggling sleepily. He always loved Dean's wings, and they usually relaxed him, so his angel flicked one wing slightly to tickle his cheek with the pinfeathers. "So do buzzards. You wanna put those things away? You're getting feather dust in the sandwiches."

Both sets of wings faded away with soft rustles. Sam cooed like he was disappointed, but he yawned and turned his face into Singer's collar. Singer smiled down at him, then furrowed his brow as Sam crinkled his forehead up and twisted his neck to rest the other way, and wriggled unhappily. "De," Sam mumbled.

"Look, just-" Dean reached out before he could stop himself. "He wants me, okay? He's used to sleeping with me and right now he's ready for a nap."

Singer raised an eyebrow. "You don't think that sounds a little unhealthy and dependent?"

Dean glared. "Listen, man, do you want a toddler who's asleep and maybe a little psychologically atypical, or a toddler who's psycho-normal and screaming his head off because he'd tired and can't get a nap?"

Singer hesitated for a second, then handed the kid over. Dean accepted his charge with relief and settled Sam into lying down on his lap, curled up and relaxed over his thighs and one broad forearm as the other braced his back.

"So," Singer said, but he was watching Sam coo wetly around his own fingers and turn his face contentedly into the familiar smell of Dean's leather jacket. "What are you two, really?"

Dean sighed, and exchanged an exasperated look with Castiel. Well. _He_ looked exasperated. Castiel just looked fascinated by his nearly-empty beer bottle. When had he started drinking that, anyway? "What do I have to do to convince you we're really angels?"

Singer slapped the sandwich halves together, dropped one on each of three plates he took out of a cupboard, and carried the plates to the table. He pushed two to Dean and Castiel, and noticed Cas' now-empty beer. "You want another?" he asked, gesturing at the bottle.

"Please," Castiel said, his voice as flat as ever, but he nodded eagerly.

Dean frowned at him. "What are you doing? You never drink."

Castiel fixed him with wide eyes. "I am finding it an…interesting experience." He smiled suddenly, and the sight was so bizarre that Dean actually scooted back a little, petting Sam's back to keep from disturbing him. "It bubbles, Dean."

"…Yeah, Cas, it bubbles," Dean agreed. He leaned across the table to Singer. "What the hell is this stuff?"

Singer shrugged. "A guy in town brews it himself. It's stronger than normal beer, but you don't taste it so much because it's got a lot of herbs or some shit in it."

Dean stared at Castiel's rapidly glazing face, intrigued. "Huh. Somethin' in there must work like pot for angels, 'cus it definitely takes more than a couple beers to get us drunk."

"You gonna quit this angel nonsense any time soon?" Singer asked irritably.

Dean raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed for patience. "Dude, seriously. What do I have to do to prove it to you? Water to wine? Chorus of heavenly cherubim?"

Singer snorted. "Angel Gabriel singing on high?"

Dean thought, and shrugged with a twist of his mouth. "Okay, sure."

Singer's eyes widened. "What d'you mean, sure?"

Dean didn't answer him, but tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "Gabriel we have heard on high, probably _getting_ high all over the plains-"

"Yo, Dean-o! Aw, Cassie's here too! What is this, a family reunion? Only the cool kids invited?"

Gabriel had popped himself into the room, already settled in a ridiculous golden throne at the head of the table. His pink plaid shirt was so bright that even Dean could tell it clashed horribly with the red seat cushions on the throne. Castiel blinked slowly at him, then raised an unsteady finger.

"You," he slurred. "You went…gone." Cas giggled, and motioned his hands like an explosion. "Poof! Michael was _angry_."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow at Dean. "Is he-"

"Drunk as a skunk? Oh, yes. I don't know how, I guess there's somethin' in this beer Singer gets from a guy in town."

"Huh." Gabriel looked curiously around, taking in the old kitchen appliances, the stacks of books on every flat surface, and the human staring open mouthed at him.

Gabriel stared back for a minute, then leaned over to whisper in Dean's ear. "Dean-o, is it just me or is the old guy staring at us?"

"Singer _knows_ shit," Dean told him. "I don't really know how much yet, but I let him see all of us, I figured it was easier that way instead of makin' everybody pop in and out of the human visual range."

"Why, you planning on getting more of the family in here? 'Cus I gotta tell you, buddy, I'm not actually looking for a _real_ reunion right now."

"Michael would enjoy seeing you," Castiel told him gleefully as he swayed forward on his chair. "He would smile the way he does when young angels behave foolishly and Dean secretly bets on how many centuries the lecture will last." He hiccupped. "Yours will last millnyum- millyenyum-"

"All of you, shut up a minute," Singer snapped.

Dean and Gabriel's jaws shut with an audible click. Castiel burped.

"So, you're sayin' you're angels," Singer said, pointing back and forth between the two of them. He ignored Castiel, now swaying slightly in his seat. "And this is really Gabriel, and _he_ 's a soldier of Heaven, which exists, and you're Sam's honest-to-God guardian angel."

"Oh, how is my little Sammykins?" Gabriel asked suddenly, craning his neck over Dean's shoulder to get a look at the dozing boy. "Aw, that's just precious."

Dean twisted defensively away. "Don't wake him up. Or feed him anything." He narrowed a stern glare at Singer and nodded his head toward Gabriel. "If he ever shows up on his own, don't let him alone with Sam. He thinks all kids should eat is candy and cake."

"Speaking of," Singer said. "John'll be back eventually and I want an action plan before he gets here. Are all of you stickin' around?"

"Of course," Dean, Gabriel, and Castiel said at once. They looked at each other. Dean and Gabriel did, anyway- Cas just went cross-eyed.

"I…yes," Castiel said slowly, like he was trying really hard to say it clear. "I am…desirous of staying with Dean and Sam. In this house. Though it is not a very clean house, and I do not think Sam should be exposed to these levels of dust and mold."

"Not like I'm asking you to stay," Singer snapped.

"And also," Castiel continued as if he hadn't heard him. "I am not… _sticking_ on anything. Though perhaps it would be an improvement if this chair were sticky instead of swaying, as I find it increasingly difficult to stay on." He peered over his shoulder at his own ass, and Dean was suddenly genuinely curious what would happen if a drunk angel tried to stick himself to a chair.

"I so need to find out what's in that beer," Gabriel muttered, and reached out with two fingers to poke Castiel in the forehead.

Cas shook his head violently and gave a full-body shudder. "That was unpleasant," he stated, and Dean had known him long enough to hear the note of pure confusion in his voice.

"I wanna hear all about this later, but we don't have time to deal with alcoholic magical beings right now," Singer cut in. He rested his arms on the table on either side of his untouched sandwich, and glared hard at Dean. "You're tellin' me a lot of stuff that I'm willing to believe, only because you got past all my wards and you're all worried about takin' care of a little kid, which doesn't sound all that evil to me. But I'm not lettin' you alone with Sam until I'm completely sure I can trust you with him."

Dean's wings _burst_ back out before he could think. Gabriel and Castiel both muttered something under their breaths and scooted their chairs back.

"How _dare_ you," Dean hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble in his chest. "Sam is _mine_. He was given to me at the Beginning. I had thousands of charges to guard before he was born but _his_ soul has been wrapped up in my Grace since the very _start_ of this world. His soul is brighter and more beautiful than anything your stupid human mind could ever imagine and he is _mine_ to protect and guard for the rest of his life, and _mine_ to spend eternity with in Heaven. You and anyone else are _not_ gonna stand in my way, because I swear to Dad you're all just gonna die trying."

Dean hadn't realized he'd stood up or shifted Sam to clutch him against his chest until, in the deafening silence, he felt tiny fingers curl against his t-shirt and heard a soft, "De?"

"It's okay, Sammy," he murmured, and swept his wings in around the front of himself so that Sam was completely hidden away in the brown feathers. "You're okay, I'm not mad. Go to sleep, baby boy." He kissed the top of Sam's head, and shifted his wings down just enough that he could see over the tops to gauge the reaction of the rest of the room.

The man and two angels all stared back at him. Finally, Gabriel sighed and snapped up a handful of m&ms, tossing them up and catching them in his mouth.

"Overreact, much? Geez," the archangel muttered around a mouthful of chocolate. "Anger management, Hesedinel. Think about it."

"He is always very protective of Sam," Castiel whispered to Gabriel.

"Shut up. And don't call me that," Dean snapped. He had _no_ reason at all to be embarrassed. Nope. Not like he'd just reacted like a little girl about to get her favorite toy taken away, or anything.

"Hesedinel? Is that your name?" Singer asked curiously. "I was wondering why you were calling yourself Dean. Doesn't sound very angelic."

"Hey, you shut up too. And I'm serious, man," Dean said warningly. "Sam's mine, okay? Any time I want I can snap my fingers and you and John Winchester will never see him again. I don't wanna do that because there's shit going on and I don't want to attract attention, but I will."

"Alright, alright." Singer put his hands up in surrender. "I get it, kid's yours. You don't have to zap him off somewhere strange, though. If you have problems with John you can always bring him here."

Dean eyed him suspiciously, but Singer's face was open and serious, so he nodded. "Yeah. That's kinda what I was hoping for, before you went all psychic on me."

Singer rolled his eyes. "Not psychic, just havin' eyes and ears. Sam didn't magically stop rollin' off the edge of the sofa, did he? And no kid his age babbles the same syllable on coincidence. He was callin' out to _somebody_ , the way he kept sayin' De De De. Anyway, it doesn't take a psychic to feel some kind of presence comin' off you when you're feelin' protective or excited. I figure you were either mad at John or wary of me when you all first pulled up, huh?"

Dean nodded again, twining his fingers idly in the long strands of hair at the back of Sam's head.

"And it felt like you damn near blew the electricity when Sam got his first few steps in- I'm assuming he was takin' those steps towards you," Singer continued.

Dean couldn't help grinning. "Sure was, me 'n Cas," he said.

"What the hell! Sammy took his first steps and that _wasn't_ the first thing you told me?" Gabriel exclaimed, sounding outraged.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, Gabe. Like, six whole real steps though!" Dean told him, happy enough to forget Singer for a second and brag about his awesome Sam. "He was playin' on the other side of the room from me and I guess he wanted to come over so he got himself upright and, like, boom! Walk walk walk!" His wings rustled excitedly.

"We got more important things goin' on than you having a mommy-moment, boy," Signer interrupted, and ignored Dean's indignant sputtering about being called boy by someone about a thousandth of his age. "How did an archangel get involved with a guardian angel, anyway?" Singer asked. "I'm assuming there are loads of guardian angels, but there's only two to seven of you, depending on who you ask." He nodded at Gabriel, who preened happily under the attention and opened his mouth to start what would probably end up being a totally untrue, totally inappropriate-for-child-ears story.

"Don't believe a word he tells you," Dean warned Singer. "It was coincidence, mostly. And Sam's cute. We got time for the story before John gets back?"

Singer shrugged. "He can't see any of you, can he? It's just me?"

"Should be."

"Okay then, we're fine. I think it should stay that way, though. John seems like he sees things in either black or white; angels aren't human, and you're standin' in between him and his kid, so I don't know what he'd try to do to you," Singer told him. Dean nodded.

"Yeah, Cas and I already agreed on that. Oh, hey, Gabe, Sammy started trying to say Cas' name earlier!"

"'Cas' is not my name," Castiel muttered petulantly.

"Seriously? Aw, you guys! That's so cute!" Gabriel clasped his hands in front of his chest and batted his eyelashes at Sam, drooling and snuffling as he slept on Dean's shoulder. "He's finally saying mommy and daddy, that's just adorable. But which one's-"

Dean snapped his fingers and Gabriel's mouth was full of an enormous chocolate cream cake. He'd learned a long time ago that this was about the only sure-fire way of shutting Gabe up- any other method Gabriel would just undo himself, but he'd never let chocolate cake go to waste, which meant he'd have to eat his way free.

"Right," Dean said, ignoring Castiel's disapproving look (whatever, Cas was still a soldier and obsessed with hierarchy but Dean definitely wasn't) and settling Sam more comfortably in his arms. "So here's how Gabriel got in on all this."

"In the beginning-"

"Shut up, Gabe, I'm not going back that far."

"Why not?" Gabriel pouted. "You were _adorable_ as a cherub. All scruffy-haired and freckle-faced, zooming around pulling down togas."

Dean felt his cheeks heat up. "Oh, like you were the perfect one," he snapped. "The only reason He sent _you_ down to talk to the apes so often was because He thought it'd get you away from the poor sheep in Eden."

Gabriel sucked in a deep breath and Dean quickly covered Sam's ears. Even if he was asleep, he did _not_ need to hear the kind of profanity that could spew from a degenerate archangel. But before Gabriel could get a word out, he was interrupted as a familiar rumble suddenly came from the road, and grew louder. Dean twisted and leaned back to look through the living room windows.

"John's back," Singer said unnecessarily. "Are you three flapping off for a while 'til we're settled down or turning invisible and staying put?"

"We're staying." Dean and Cas' firm voices came simultaneously. Gabriel shrugged.

"You guys seem to be having more fun than I am, and somebody obviously needs to start teaching poor Sammy to say 'Uncle Gabe.' I was kinda in the middle of something when you called, but I'll be around." He smirked and waved a lazy salute to Dean. "Later, boys. And Singer?" Gabriel raised one hand, poised to snap. "Love that you recognize real men definitely _do_ wear pink plaid, but I don't think this particular shade is your color." He clicked his fingers, and angel and throne disappeared.

Singer stared. "Did he-"

"He can hear your thoughts," Dean explained apologetically. "Sorry. Maybe should have mentioned that sooner…."

Singer scowled. " _Balls_."

"Well, I would've said something if I'd gotten to explain why he's here at all," Dean offered. "He's distracting like that. 'S why we have to keep him away from Sam, so the kid doesn't catch his ADHD or somethin'. Besides, I really don't think you thought anything he hasn't heard before." He paused and thought for a moment. "Last time he heard anything original, there were sailors and oranges and a saint involved."

Castiel choked next to him and Dean patted his poor, sheltered friend consolingly on the shoulder.

The car pulled up outside and the engine stopped. Singer motioned his hands to Dean. "Here, gimme the kid."

Dean blinked at him. "Yeah, how about _no_."

Singer huffed like an irritated old dog. "You can either give him to me, put him down in the play room, or let John walk in here and see his son floating in midair. What's it gonna be?"

Dean glowered, but Castiel touched his arm like he was trying to soothe him, and Dean had to back down. "Fine," he muttered. Heavy footsteps clomped up the front porch. He carefully settled Sam into Singer's arms, smoothing back his hair. "You have to be careful when he's sleeping like this," he instructed. "He'll try to roll around in your arms and that'll get his hair trapped and he'll pull on it-"

"Alright, alright," Singer hissed.

The front door swung open.

"I'm warning you, Singer," Dean growled. "I've been letting you take care of him these last few weeks because you were okay at it but now you know about _me-"_

"Now I know the kid's got a pack of angels cooing over him, I know where my damn blueberries went," Singer growled back. "And if you call me 'Singer' again I'll call you Hesedinel, got it? Name's Bobby to everybody I can stand."

"Singer, get out here and give me a hand!" John yelled.

"Can't," Bobby said. "Your kid fell asleep on my shoulder."

"Well, put him down!"

"Carry less and make more trips. It'll do good for your arms."

"Strangling _you_ will do good for my arms," John muttered. He trudged into the kitchen a moment later with two plastic bags in each hand and heaved them up on the counter. "There. Cake and ice cream for the baby, beer, meat, and liquor for the grownups." He shuffled through the bags to pull out each item as he named them. Dean peered over his shoulder. The ice cream was Rocky Road, which Dean rolled his eyes at- how did John expect Sammy to crunch down frozen almonds with no molars? The cake was a fluffy white two-layer thing chock full of way too much sugar for Sam's delicate system, but he couldn't really fault John for that- any store-bought cake would've been as bad.

Bobby sniffed when he saw the ice cream, but he didn't say anything. "I'm gonna lay Sammy down in his crib," Bobby said. "Finish putting the groceries away and we've got a little time to wrap up what we were doin' earlier before I get started on dinner."

Dean irritably snapped up a stiff sheet of paper and a thick permanent marker. By the time Bobby walked to the gated doorway of Sam's room he was ready and waiting, sitting cross-legged on the floor and holding up his sign with a scowl.

" _Only I get to call him Sammy,"_ Bobby read under his breath. He shook his head in exasperation. "Not gonna touch that one." But he passed Sam into Dean's arms without even glancing at the crib, so Dean let it slide.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A guest commenter over on FF asked how to pronounce Hesedinel. Answer: ummm...no idea. Go wild and make it up! I tried to find a historical angel name with some variation of the name 'Dean' in it so that 'Dean' could legitimately be his nickname, but the closest I came was names with 'dee' sounds in them. I went with Hesediel (more commonly referred to as Zadkiel) because depending on the tradition he's the angel of mercy, the angel who stopped Abraham from killing his son, a standard bearer who follows right behind Michael into battle, and 'co-chief with Gabriel of the order of Shinanim.' Whatever Shinanim is; I never actually figured that out. Anyway I thought it was pretty interesting since it all kind of seemed to fit, even though my character isn't that angel, so I added an 'n' in it to make the 'Dean' sound and there you go. Enjoy your esotericism lesson for the day!

After Sam's immediate response to his first slice of cake that evening was to smash his hands in it, John gladly handed his messy child, the bowl, and the spoon over to Bobby. Dean sat next to him and surreptitiously changed the contents of the bowl from a pseudo-vanilla sugar bomb to a soft, warm slice of apple pie. Bobby, to his credit, didn't so much as raise an eyebrow- just tilted the bowl to make sure John couldn't see inside and held the spoonfuls the same way.

Dean felt more than a little smug when Sam's eyes lit up and his mouth dropped open in anticipation as soon as he registered the presence of pie. His kid was just awesome sometimes, he really was- even if Cas leaned back against the wall and muttered sullenly that there was probably just as much sugar in apple pie as in cake. What did he know, anyway?

The next morning Bobby got a call about a werewolf a few hours away. John immediately offered to go after it. "We've been here almost a month already," he argued, climbing over the fence into what had become Sammy's nursery, strewn with blankets and toys and books that Bobby had picked up. He started piling Sam's things into his bag. "We've hit a dead end on Yellow Eyes. I'm going stir-crazy and I don't want Sam getting too settled in here or he'll just get even more fussy when we finally leave."

Bobby frowned. Dean cracked his knuckles. "Hang on a minute," Bobby said. "I think I've got a couple of Sam's stuffed animals up in my room, I was reading to him in there the other night."

He caught Dean's eyes and jerked his head slightly to the door. Dean quietly asked Castiel to stay with Sam. The soldier agreed and knelt down to run a fingertip lightly down Sammy's ticklish spine and distract him from Dean's leaving the room, so he followed Bobby reluctantly upstairs. Dean was loathe to leave Sam with John, even with Castiel watching, but he hoped Singer had a better plan than letting the toddler sit in his car seat all night while his daddy took down a werewolf alone.

"Can you make Sam look sick?" Bobby asked quietly as soon as he swung the door nearly closed.

Dean frowned. "Why?"

"So John will agree to leave him here, idjit. He won't want to deal with a sick kid while he's on a hunt, but he won't mind leaving him here and swinging back by when he's done. So can your magic angel powers do it or not?"

Dean graciously ignored the puny human's insult. "I can make him _actually_ sick," he answered. "Give him a fever and splotchy white gunk on his tonsils and stuff. And then heal him as soon as John leaves."

"Good enough. Give him a rash and we'll be sold." Bobby clapped him on the shoulder, grabbed the stuffed toy sheep and small stack of children's books piled on his nightstand, and stomped back downstairs to John. Dean quickly explained the plan to Castiel, who thought for a moment and frowned before nodding, and squatted down in front of Sam.

"Sorry about this, kiddo," Dean said regretfully, and poked Sam's forehead.

Sam scrunched up his face. He sneezed. Then the sinus pressure built up and he started to cry.

"Of course," John muttered. "Always right when we're ready to go. "What's wrong now, Sam?"

Bobby, his face the perfect picture of innocent concern, squatted down too. Dean had to shuffle back to get out of his way as he reached out to palm Sam's forehead. He frowned at what he found and pressed his fingers under Sam's jaw at the top of his throat. "Poor kid's burning up and his glands are all swollen. Why the hell didn't you say he was sick, Winchester? I've got children's Tylenol right upstairs, you didn't need to let him get this bad."

"He isn't! Wasn't!" John protested. "He was fine just this morning! He can't have gotten sick so fast."

"Well, either he did, or you weren't payin' attention." Bobby tugged Sam's shirt off to show the blotchy red heat rash on Sam's round belly and under his arms, already spreading up his chest and down to his legs. "That look like a healthy boy to you?" Bobby's expression was all disgust and reproach now as he thrust the tiny shirt into John's hands, and Dean thought the hunter might be having just a little too much fun with this. "Hell, you dressed him this morning. How did you miss this giant flaming rash all over him?" Bobby pulled out the back of Sam's pants and diaper to show John the angry red bumps on Sam's skin. The poor kid wriggled and cried and Dean gently stroked his back in sympathy, careful not to rub any rashy spots. Cas pet Sam's hair and glared at Dean.

"Was this necessary, Dean? Could you not just have given him a running nose?"

"What, you think I'm happy? It had to be bad enough that Winchester would definitely leave him here," Dean hissed. "Besides, it's been a while. You're lucky I didn't give him leprosy or the plague or something by mistake."

John groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "What the hell am I supposed to do now? There's no way he'll stay asleep long enough for me to take care of the werewolf."

"Guess I'll have to find someone else," Bobby sighed, pushing up to his feet. "I'll go grab the Tylenol and some ointment to help bring that rash down. Get him undressed and lay him out on a towel so I can put some cold, wet cloths on him after the cream."

"I could-" John started, and stopped. He managed to look contrite when he tried again, clutching Sam's shirt and his duffle bag. "Could I leave him here? Just for a couple days? You're good with him and he never gives you any trouble, and I'll go get rid of that werewolf."

Dean snorted. Bobby sighed and scratched his beard. "I s'pose you could."

"He'll be real quiet for you, especially if he's sick," John said eagerly. "And it really don't make any sense to call out someone else halfway across the country when I'm right here."

"S'pose not." Bobby looked down at Sam. The toddler was trying his hardest to climb into Dean's lap and cry for comfort, but Dean and Cas gently held him away and tried to make it not look like Sam was grabbing at invisible men. "What d'you say, Sam? How about we get you all fixed up and you stay here with me awhile?"

Apparently realizing he wasn't going to get what he wanted from either of his angels, Sammy turned big teary eyes to Bobby instead and raised his flushed arms, begging to be picked up. Bobby scooped him carefully onto his hip, watching out for the stinging and itchy patches.

"Come on, then. John, you heading out?"

"Yeah." John petted his son's sweaty hair. "Be a good boy for him, alright, Sam? I'll be back before you know it." He heaved his duffle bag over his shoulder. "I'm just gonna grab your notes, alright? Thanks for looking after him."

"Call me when you're heading back," Bobby told him, heading for the stairs. "Okay, Sam, let's get you cleaned up.

John clomped around the kitchen, grabbed his jacket and was gone.

Bobby, Sam, Dean and Cas waited in silence until the last faint rumbles of the old engine faded away.

Then, like he'd suddenly got tired of waiting- " **DEEEEEEE**!" Sam _wailed_ at the top of his lungs, tiny fists pounding Bobby's shoulders and legs kicking desperately.

Dean hurried over and hauled his kid of Bobby's arms. Sam threw his arms as far around Dean's neck as he could, dug his knees and feet into Dean's ribs, and sobbed inconsolably into his shoulder. Dean covered his back with one broad hand and pressed his miserable charge into his chest. "I know, I know, I'm _so_ sorry, baby boy. I know you feel really shitty right now but we're gonna make it all better now, okay? You're alright, tiger, I got you. Cas, man, I don't have any hands, can you-"

"Yes." Castiel gently forced Sam to turn his face to the side instead of pressed between Dean's neck and shoulder, and placed a hand over his forehead with his eyes closed. A long moment later, he sighed. "I have healed the illness."

"Thanks, man." Dean bounced Sam a little in his arms and shifted his weight from side to side, trying to get the kid to stop hiding in the collar of his jacket and look at him. "See, Sammy? All better, huh? Yeah, you're okay now. You're just fine. How about we go get you some more of that apple pie, huh? Yeah, you deserve somethin' good for putting up with all that like such a good boy."

"Dean," Castiel said severely. "We have discussed this. Modern psychological literature is very clear about the damaging ramifications of rewarding young children with sugary foods."

Dean rolled his eyes at Bobby. "Don't pay any attention to him when he says shit like that. If he had his way Sammy wouldn't even know what pie _is_ and he'd be walking around in a dress with flowers in his hair. Just because he's read a few more books than me on child raising-"

"You read books?" Bobby interrupted, looking bemused. "I'd've figured you'd've seen enough kids grow up over ten thousand years that you'd have the whole thing down pretty good by now." He knelt down in Sam's nursery and set to pulling the boy's things back out of the bag John had started to stuff them into, stacking books on the empty lower bookcase shelves and stacking stuffed toys along the sides of the crib.

"I've read books," Dean corrected. "He read _all_ the books. Child care's changed a little bit over the last millennium, you know? No more givin' 'em a sword at age eight and marryin' 'em off at twelve. And it's not like _I'd_ ever hurt _Sam_ but the whole child discipline and reward thing's changed, too. Cas figured that if I'm mostly flying by instinct and common sense he should have the whole child psychology thing down." He made a face to show exactly what he thought about _that_. Sure, Dean read up on new research; especially medical stuff. He made sure that Sammy was growing up healthy and smart, eating the right things and hitting the right mileposts. He looked up ideas for learning activities and something called 'constructive playtime.' But it was still just ridiculous for any dusty old professor to claim that _they_ knew how to make Sam happy and well-behaved better than _Dean_ , when Dean could read every little twitch of Sam's face and Sam would do anything, no matter how much he didn't like it- even having snarls combed out of his hair or getting shots for vaccines- if Dean would just smile at him and call him good.

Bobby paused with one hand on a teething giraffe. "When you say, _all_ the books…."

"Every reputable, well-received, and currently supported document on child psychology and raising a well-adjusted child since the conception of the academic field," Castiel said.

Bobby stared at him. "You read _all_ of them?"

Castiel stared back. "Should I not have? Were some of them supposed to be secret?"

Dean snorted at the lost-looking hunter. "And that, Singer, is your first real introduction to Castiel, angel of the Lord." He looked down at Sam, still sniffling and gnawing unhappily on the zipper of Dean's jacket. "Come on, little man. Let's go get you some pie."

Bobby shook out the fleece owlet blanket and draped it over the foot of the crib. "Real food for everybody first. I got stuff for burritos in the fridge. There's some tupperwares of unseasoned chicken, cheese, and beans for Sam. One of you can make yourselves useful and start chopping vegetables."

Dean hoisted Sam up so they could look eye to eye. "And here I was, thinkin' I actually liked this guy," he told Sam mournfully. Sammy giggled and started pulling on his ears. "Turns out he's the kind of hard ass who won't even let you have pie until you eat your greens."

He glanced over at Castiel, expecting to see the little creases at the corners of his eyes that meant if he were normal he'd be chuckling. To his dismay, though, Cas was sending Bobby a rather pleased look and crossing his arms like he was ready to strong-arm Sam and Dean away from the pie if he had to.

"You're lucky you have me," Dean told Sam seriously. Sam placed his hands carefully on Dean's cheeks and stared just as seriously back. "If you were stuck with just those two old women you'd _never_ have any fun."

"De," Sam said, and blew a spit bubble that burst wetly all over Dean's face.

"Love you too."


	10. Chapter 10

They managed to keep John away for a few more weeks by tracking down every hunt within five hundred miles and telling him that whatever illness Sam had picked up made him sleepless and prone to throw a tantrum at the drop of a coin. John was all too willing to take the hunts, and there were plenty to take.

Sam spent those weeks putting his newfound skills to work and taking advantage of the nicer weather by tottering around the back yard- after Dean and Castiel swept it for sharp rocks and bits of metal, of course. Dean wrestled him into jeans, itty bitty sneakers, and a shirt with a fuzzy dog on it that Bobby had found somewhere, set him down in the grass, and gave him a little push to send him zooming off at a wobble like a wind-up toy. Castiel took it upon himself to patrol the property (though Dean suspected he kept circling back to hover just out of sight, both eyes on Sam), and Dean and Bobby sat on the back porch with a couple of beers to watch Sam go.

"Ooh!"

Dean winced when Sam tripped over his own feet and face-planted in the dirt. Wide hazel eyes blinked up at him.

"De?"

"You're okay, buddy," Dean called. "You're good, just get up and keep goin'. Shake it off."

Apparently reassured by Dean's lack of concern, Sam pushed himself up to his feet and was off again.

"Fast learner," Bobby commented.

"Oh yeah," Dean said proudly. "He is in everything. I was kinda worried, you know? Because he's still so small. Like, twentieth percentile in height or somethin'. But he's got all the motor skills down on time or early, so I guess he's just a slow grower. His dad's pretty tall but maybe his mom was short."

Bobby hummed disagreeably. "Can't always judge by that. He might have a late growth spurt years from now and end up taller'n you."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, right. His dad's not _that_ tall."

"And it's not like John feeds him so great, he might be stunted from bad nutrition."

" _John_ feeds him badly. _We've_ always fed him great," Dean corrected irritably. Seriously, what kind half-assed guardian angel did Bobby think he was? "Right from the minute I got him, man. The last, what? Eight months? Except for what you give him, he's had almost all his meals mixed up by Cas from Heaven's gardens and super special hippy places here on earth, and all his milk formula has been based on, like, magic cows."

Bobby was a veteran hunter of the supernatural, and he'd spent the last several weeks with a couple of angels, so he didn't even blink. "Magic cows, huh?"

"Yeah. Well. Not really. I dunno. Cas just goes out and comes back with milk that's super nutritious. And there's a schedule to it, because he says he has to ask the magic cows or whatever they are first, and he can only ask when they're not sleeping or busy."

"Huh. You let Sam drink somethin' when you're not even sure what it is?"

Dean glared at him over the mouth of his beer. "Cas is alright, okay? He's a freakin' weirdo but you can trust him. Even with Sam."

They watched as Sam babbled loudly and stomped around the yard, playing a game that only he could understand. Bobby took a long drink of his beer.

"Got a call from John this morning. He's heading back, he'll be here by tonight."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, figured it couldn't last much longer. I'm not sure we should stay any longer anyway. There's been muttering on angel airwaves...I dunno. It's probably good we're moving on. But thanks for letting us stay so long."

Bobby waved him off. "Don't need to thank me. There's some kinda shit startin' out there, I'm seein' the signs too and I don't like 'em. Get Sam back here as often as you can so I'm not worryin' about the four of you and we'll call it even."

"Four?"

"Two angels, one man and a baby. I count that four."

Something a little warm and fuzzy glowed in Dean's chest. "You know we're eternity-old, right?" he pointed out gruffly. "Cas and me are two of the most powerful things on earth right now. There's not really anything that you need to worry about with us."

Bobby shrugged. "Knowin' and common sense don't have anything to do with it," he said simply, and the conversation was over.

"De!" Sam shouted. He waved one arm over his head.

"What 'cha got there, Sammy?"

"De!" Sam said insistently. Dean shook his head.

"Nah, dude. You gotta come bring it over here."

Sam trotted up to the porch, only falling twice, and climbed up the steps on his hands and knees. He hauled himself back up to his feet by pulling on the legs of Dean's jeans and held his tiny fist out. Dean held his hand out flat. Sam dropped a smooth grey pebble onto his palm.

"Woooow," Dean marveled. "That's awesome, Sammy. Isn't it?" He showed the rock to Bobby.

"Really nice, Sam," Bobby said appreciatively.

Sam grabbed onto Dean's knees and bounced up and down. "De!" he squealed happily.

Bobby frowned. "Isn't it about time he learned a few more words so he can actually talk?"

Dean shrugged. "No rush. I understand him just fine."

Sam looked around, his face falling. "De?"

"And that one," Dean explained as he leaned forward to scoop Sam up, "means 'why is that big dork Castiel not here to admire my very pretty pebble?'" He gripped Sam's hands and pulled him up so that Sam stood unsteadily on his thighs. "Sammy," he said firmly. "Sammy, look at me. New lesson for the day, we're gonna teach you how to call yourself an angel. You want Cas, right?"

"Cath," Sam agreed. They'd been working on the 'kah' sound, but he didn't have enough teeth to make a good 's'. Dean still thought it was a pretty good start. Cas complained like he had a stick up his ass that it was all wrong and not his name, but Dean also caught him once sitting on the floor with Sam and handing him strawberry slices every time he said it.

"Yup, Cas, good job, Sam," Dean praised. "I want you to think about Cas, okay?"

"You know he can't understand about ninety percent of the words you're sayin', don't you?" Bobby interrupted.

"Shut up, man, Sam's a genius and we work on extra wavelengths. Sammy, think about Cas. You like Cas' feathers, right? You like it when I leave him to watch you and he puts a wing out for you? How about when Cas lies down on the floor with his wings out so you can lie down on one and he rustles it so you roll around like a little bug?"

Bobby snorted. "He really does that? Heaven's most straight-edge soldier?"

Dean grinned. "Oh, yeah. Cutest thing ever, man. And he does this thing he calls a defensive protective position, he gets Sam up hanging on to his neck like a piggy-back ride and sticks his wings straight back so Sammy's kind of squashed in between them- 'cus our feathers are like, bomb proof, you know? So yeah, he's protected in the middle of both wings and Cas still has his hands free, but you can just hear Sammy giggling away in there for ages."

"Cath," Sam reminded him, jumping on his legs.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, sit down, I need both hands." Dean raised Sam up so he hung in the air then dropped him onto his lap and covered his eyes with one palm. "Cas, Sammy. Think about Cas. I'm gonna make this real easy, okay? You love Cas' feathers, so think about Cas now. Cas, Cas, Cas." He leaned forward and manifested his wings, bringing one forward to tickle the feather tips along Sam's face and neck. Then he swept it away. "Cas. These are Cas' feathers and you want them back, right? Think about how much you want Cas' feathers."

There was a soft rustle and Cas stood in front of them on the porch, wide eyed. "Sam," he said, and sounded shocked. "Dean, Sam _called_ for me."

"Alright!" Dean whooped. "That's my boy, Sammy!" He hoisted the shrieking toddler up into the air above his head and beamed at him. "Who's a smart little guy? _You_ are. Because you just figured out how to pray for an angel before you can even talk, didn't you? Yes you _did_."

"So, what, you think about an angel hard enough and they hear you callin' 'em?" Bobby asked, sounding intrigued.

"If a human directs their thoughts and desire for a certain angel, that angel will hear it as a prayer," Castiel told him. "Sam did not produce distinct words or ideas, but his thoughts were entirely focused on me, and I felt his desire for my presence."

"Cath!" Sam burbled, and reached out for the other angel. Dean shifted his hands to Sam's ribcage and passed him off like a football, ignoring the disapproving wrinkle between Cas' eyes.

"Yeah, I got him thinking about your feathers," Dean explained proudly. "You should probably give 'em up now or he'll just get all sad and dewy-eyed on us."

Sure enough, as soon as Castiel had the toddler settled sitting upright on his forearm and leaning against his chest, he tugged on the lapel of Cas' coat and fixed him with big, beseeching eyes. "Cath?" he asked, in a very tiny voice.

Dean threw back his head and laughed. Bobby growled indistinctly into his beer. "Kid's gonna be lethal as he gets older," he grumbled.

"You know it," Dean chuckled.

Castiel let loose his wings and brought them forward to surround Sam and block him away completely, hidden except for his happy coos.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be plot from now on, I promise.  Well.  Maybe one more pointless fluff chapter,  _then_ plot.  But yeah, plot's coming; don't give up hope!


	11. strawberry interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a few people ask about the Cas-secretly-bribing-with-strawberry-slices scene, and I'm already really sad that I have to let baby!Sam grow up so we can have a plot, so here it is! Then I realised that I totally forgot to stick in Gabriel's scene (this is why I need a beta), so I threw it in here. Sorry.

Now that they were on speaking terms, Dean quickly grew to like Bobby even more than he had when the hunter was just a good caretaker for Sam. The man was entirely blunt and ornery and not remotely about to give Dean or Castiel any respect just for being angels of the Lord, and Dean had to admire that. Bobby didn't think that just being millennia-old made them any smarter than he was, either, but he freely asked for and willingly took advice about every supernatural thing he could think of without seeming lesser for it- or granting Dean or Cas any kind of thanks other than a beer or a fond "Yeah, yeah, now enough with the history lesson, idjits. You're boring Sam straight to sleep and I can look all this up myself." Dean admired that, too.

So when it came up that Bobby had more cars than he could work on by himself and plenty than needed two sets of hands, Dean volunteered to help immediately. He liked working on cars, so it wasn't any hardship to him, and he figured they should probably pay him back somehow for crashing on his doorstep and demanding to stay. He felt a little guilty for drinking up all the guy's alcohol as well, even though Bobby himself insisted that Grace could be put to better uses than snapping up beers when he had a fridge full of them.

The weather was cooler and overcast the next day, and Dean didn't really like the idea of Sam outside without at least two pairs of eyes on him (he'd heard about eagles taking off with dogs and cats and things, and Sammy wasn't much that bigger than a little terrier), so he dressed Sam in sweatpants, a Superman shirt, and little tiny socks with rubbery treads on the bottom so he wouldn't slip on the slick wood floors. Castiel sat down on the floor of the nursery with a pile of children's books from the library and Dean gave Sam a big smacking kiss on the nose before dropping him into Cas' lap.

"You two good?"

"We are very well, Dean," Castiel assured him, his hands automatically going to Sam's middle to steady him.

"Sammy, you gonna be good here with Cas while I go help out Bobby?"

"Cath," Sam repeated.

"Castiel," Cas corrected. "My name is Castiel, Sam. Not 'Cath.' There is no 'th' sound."

"Cath," Sam agreed.

Dean chuckled. "Forget it, man, he needs like- six more teeth before he can say it right. Just go with it for now."

Castiel frowned. "I do not think it is to Sam's benefit to encourage a mistake."

Dean rolled his eyes and pushed off the door frame. "Just read him some damn books and don't let him take a nap, he doesn't get one 'til this afternoon. If I'm not back in by eleven, there's some cheese cubes and shredded chicken and orange slices in the fridge for him to eat."

He left to the sound of Castiel reading out Dr. Seuss in the flattest, most boring voice possible.

Bobby knew his cars, and he was such a good taskmaster that Dean didn't mind taking orders- even though he'd been elbow-deep in an engine compartment since the first Ford rolled out of the factory back when the world was still in black and white. Bobby didn't pull any punches and didn't offer compliments, but he had a beer cooler in the garage and his running commentary was some kind of comedy.

"Got this old wreck a few months ago, some idiot figured his son would love a beige Volvo station wagon for his sixteenth birthday. Kid crashed it into a tree as soon as he could, but not before he and his friends figured out they could fit full-sized girls in the back along with an ice chest and the stupidest stereo system you've ever seen in your life. I ripped that sucker out and threw it in the fire pit and toasted hot dogs over it first night I had it."

Hours passed. There was a plain round analogue clock up on the wall above the beer cooler, and Dean wanted to go in and check on Sam when it got near twelve, but Bobby held him back.

"We're just about to bleed the brakes here, needs two people. Castiel can feed him, can't he?"

"Yeah," Dean answered slowly. "But he doesn't believe in dessert."

Bobby snorted. "Kid'll live."

Dean sighed and wriggled under the car on his back. "Fine. When we go inside and Sam's all miserable because he thinks he didn't get dessert because he did something wrong, I'm just gonna turn him around and point the puppy eyes at you."

"Not at Castiel?"

"Nah, I wouldn't do that to him." Dean frowned and scraped a wrench on a rust spot, trying to see how far it went. "It's not his fault he's a stick in the mud with no sense of fun."

"Why are you two such good friends, then, anyway?"

Dean shrugged. "We grew up together, sort of. Plus most of the other angels in Heaven are dicks. Gabriel and me are, like, the dead opposite of everybody else up there."

"You never did tell me how you got mixed up with an archangel."

Dean rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah, well...it's a long story."

_Flashback_

Gabriel liked Dean well enough, and Dean tolerated Gabriel- the archangel annoyed the hell out of him most of the time, but centuries ago they'd randomly run into each other at a dive bar in Rome while Gabriel was supposed to be missing and Dean was supposed to be guarding the virtue of some young serving girl (who, in all honesty, didn't have much interest in virtue herself, and definitely didn't seem destined for any kind of monastic future. Dean figured the paperwork had gotten switched up somewhere and mostly ignored her; he wasn't really into voyeurism, after all). After that Dean bounced from boring charge to boring charge and Gabriel went north, but they still met up now and then to drink and complain about the smugly sanctimonious smartasses up in Heaven. Dean figured Gabriel missed Heaven, just a little bit, and took what angelic company he could get. After all, Dean was only a standard-level guardian. But he wouldn't rat out God's Messenger for wanting a break from the prissy dicks upstairs, not when he himself was hardly the most chaste and pious example of angeldom, and they each felt it was kinda nice to have a drink with someone who wouldn't freak if they used their Grace to change water into whiskey or ended the evening by going home with a barmaid.

But then, Sam was born-the mistake, or the gift- the one he'd been given far too early. Souls usually came to him just long enough before birth for him to get used to their particular glow and resonance, but this one- this bright, tiny soul was all his own, the one he'd kept sheltered, warm and safe, in the deepest folds of his Grace since the very beginning of humanity, keeping up a steady soothing croon to it in the back of his mind until it was ready for its spark of life.

When Sam came into the world, the most beautiful baby Dean had ever seen, he'd already known his guardian's voice and arms for millennia. Dean hovered over his plastic crib that first night in the hospital and smiled down at the restlessly sleeping child and carefully reached in, stroking one fingertip gently over the back of Sammy's tiny grasping hand. Sam immediately clutched his finger in a tight grip, and settled down.

"You're gonna be awesome, Sammy," Dean whispered. Sam clung on and dreamed indistinct images and sounds of Heaven seen through a filter of Grace. "You're all mine, Sam, and I'm gonna be with you every step of the way, and you are gonna be the best man this world has ever seen."

He'd gone back up to Heaven in a daze, already thinking ahead to how he could make Sammy's future as bright and long as possible.

Then Azazel happened, and Dean hurtled back to earth just in time to see blood on Sam's lips. After finding the kid in a duffel bag on a motel room floor Dean spent every night with his wings held protectively over the baby boy, either watching in rapt silence or whispering that he'd never let anything hurt him again.

Then, of course, Gabriel showed up.

"Dude, you feed him any more of those and it'll be a toss-up whether he throws up on you before I kill you."

"Then it's a good thing you can't kill me, and I've got super special angel magic that gets baby vomit out of silk shirts, because he really likes these." Gabriel smirked unrepentantly as he held out another handful of chocolate-coated jelly balls. Sammy gurgled happily and tried to grab all of them at once with his chubby little fingers.

"Seriously, you're gonna make him sick," Dean insisted halfheartedly. He was sprawled out across John's bed on his stomach with his feet up on the pillows and his head resting on one out-stretched arm, one eye on his friend and his baby where they sat on the floor, the other on the tv.

"Hey. I'm doing you a favor. If I get him used to overloading on sugar now, he won't ever be sick because of it later."

Dean frowned. "That's…huh. Whatever, man. Just don't let Cas catch you, okay? He puts a lot of work into that slop he makes."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and I'm sure he's real thrilled with you calling all that hard work _slop_."

"Shut up."

Dean tuned out his angelic brethren and watched tv. Gabriel continued to feed Sam chocolates, now trying to get him to do tricks to earn the candies. It didn't really work because Sammy didn't do much beyond sitting and rolling, and he couldn't understand commands, anyway.

"He totally adores you, you know."

"Huh?" Dean asked blearily. He'd spent the whole day half asleep. John had left early, laying Sam down with his bottle and bowl of cheerios. Gabe popped in just as early, bored and deciding to take it out on Sam. Sam usually thought Gabriel was pretty fun, so Dean let them play and had a lazy day of catching up on his soaps.

"Sam-a-lamb," Gabriel said. "He doesn't really have _thoughts_ , you know, just a lot of 'De De De' and mmmmms and gahs. But he kind of projects feelings. When you make eye contact with him his whole mind lights up with, like, bubbles and sparkles. It's like the feelings he gets from chocolates, a clean diaper, and tickles all combined."

"Nice," Dean muttered wryly. "Cheap candy and a clean diaper. Good to see where I rate."

Gabriel snapped his fingers and Dean jerked at the feeling of a sharp pinch on his ass. "Don't be a dick. I'm just saying. You're like, the center of his world, right? So if that's what you were going for, taking over the daddy role, you're doing an awesome job. And dude, this is _not_ cheap candy. I got it in Austria."

Dean frowned. "Why not Switzerland? Isn't that where the good chocolate's supposed to come from?"

Gabriel looked cagey. "I'm not all that popular in Switzerland right now."

Dean lay in silence for a long while. He knew Sammy loved him, of course he did. Sam was a human baby, Dean cuddled him and cleaned him and gave him food. That's what happens. But hearing it from his archangel brother was something a little different. "Huh," he said finally. "So what does Sam think of you, anyway? Ugly creepy uncle he puts up with because you come with sugar?"

He paid for that with another pinch on the ass.

"Serious time now, Dean-o," Gabriel grumbled. Sammy was pawing impatiently at his empty hand, trying to find more chocolates. He used his free hand to pet the boy's wispy hair. "You've got an awful lot on your plate, kiddo," Gabriel murmured. "And there's nothing I can do except keep you happy with candy until that doesn't work anymore. There's nothing _you_ can do, Dean," Gabriel added, fixing him with those piercing hawk eyes, "except keep loving him and keep him loving you, so he knows he has a safe place to come home to and something to fight for."

"What are you talking about, Gabriel?" Dean asked warily. He propped himself up on his elbows. He'd wondered why Azazel chose Sam, but the thoughts weren't pleasant and nothing had happened since, so he'd let it go for a little while.

"Ahhh…." Gabriel shook his head with a sigh. "Nothin,' man. I don't even know. I've been out of touch for too long." He stroked Sam's hair again and chucked him gently under the chin. Sam giggled and grabbed at his hands. "Just keep him under your wings, okay? And remember, Deano, just give me a call and I'll come if you two ever need me."

_Now_

"So you bonded over beer and barmaids and had a big feathery chick-flick moment," Singer said dryly.

"Shut up, man, you wanted to know," Dean grumbled. "Anyway, that's why Gabe's around. And he's not in Heaven anymore because Michael's the guy in charge and he has wet dreams about writing up behavior regulations." Dean grimaced at his own imagination. "And Gabe likes Castiel, so he sticks around for him, too."

"They don't seem like they'd get along too well. Hell, he doesn't seem like the kind of guy _you'd_ get along with too well."

"Cas is like Heaven's little accountant, but he gets me," Dean explained with a grudging smile. "And he's got a sneaky little sense of humor in there. Besides, Sam likes him."

There was silence up above him for a long while. "So...you and Castiel..."

Dean shot up and crashed his head against the underside of the car. " _Shit_. No! We're not like _that_." He recognized the tone of that 'so.' He'd heard it often enough. About once for every angel he'd ever met.

"Hey, I'm open-minded," Bobby said mildly.

"Yeah, well, there's nothing here to be open-minded about," Dean snapped.

"That sounds a lot of protesting for nothing." Bobby sounded unreasonably gleeful.

"Figures you're just an old gossip," Dean muttered. "Screw the braks. I'm gonna go check on Sam." He ignored Bobby's sniggering with dignity and shoved out from under the car, pushed to his feet, and stomped back to the house.

Sam and Castiel weren't in the kitchen, so Dean washed the grease off his hands and arms at the kitchen sink. He kicked off his boots so he wouldn't track dirt into Sam's nursery, filled a glass with water, and went off in search of his boys.

He froze at the nursery door.

Cas and Sam hadn't heard him come in. They sat on the floor, Sam plopped in a little nest of blankets wrapped and piled up around him. A glass bowl of strawberry slices sat between them.

"Now, Sam," Cas said seriously. "Who is your guardian?"

"De," Sam answered at once. It was a sort of squeaky, serious 'De' that Dean knew meant 'I don't know what's going on and that's okay but I kinda want Dean now.'

"Very good," Cas said, with an approving little twitch of his mouth. "And who am I?"

"De?" That one meant 'I have literally no idea what you want from me, and where is Dean? Because he can probably fix that."

"No," Cas said patiently. "I am Castiel. I am Castiel, Sam."

"Cath," Sam said, grinning happily, and he reached for the strawberries.

"Very good, Sam," Cas said warmly, and handed Sam a piece of fruit from the bowl. "Can you say it again?"

"Cath."

Cas gave him another strawberry slice.

"Cath! Cath! Cath! Cath!"

Four strawberry slices were dropped into Sam's grasping little hands and he shoved them all into his mouth at once, red juice staining his chubby cheeks and dimpled chin. Cas, who normally kicked up a massive fuss about letting Sam get food on his face, just twitched his lips in a fond smile.

Dean chuckled quietly and tiptoed back to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. This is dead week, next week is finals week. There's a good chance I won't update until after that because I'll be too busy crying over textbooks and unfinished essays. Sorry!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to abuse me soundly for the MASSIVE lapse in postings.

Sam was getting big.  He could run, he could climb up on the bed by himself (giving Dean a heart attack every time he scrambled up then bounced triumphantly right near the edge), and he could sometimes actually keep quiet and not giggle when he was playing hide and seek with his three angels.  He still didn’t talk much, communicating mostly with ‘Des,’ ‘yeses,’ ‘nos,’ ‘wants,’ ‘gimmes,’ and ‘BOOK!s,’ but John had convinced himself that ‘De’ was just Sam’s version of ‘Daddy,’ so that was okay- and he wasn’t exactly wrong, as Bobby liked liked to say.  They spent another week and a half holed up at his place when John took a nasty gash to his back from some kind of tree sprite.  John spent most of it in bed, fighting off a mild infection and trying not to pop any more stitches.  Bobby spent most of it child-proofing every edge and corner less than three feet from the floor.

“Overkill, dude,” Dean drawled, sprawled out unhelpfully on the sofa, watching Singer wrestle foam around the projecting edge of a deep cabinet with a shallower hutch.  “Sam’s not that tall.”

The kid himself was out in the back yard with Castiel, who was lecturing very seriously about dirt and earthworms and grubs and where all of Sam’s favorite vegetables came from.  Dean would’ve been worried, but every time he glanced out back, Sam seemed happy enough to ignore Cas and focus on digging a big muddy hole.

“I know he’s not.” Bobby grunted as he yanked off another strip of duct tape.  “But what if he makes friends with the grandkids who stay down the road sometimes?  The youngest is a little older and a handful of inches taller.”

“Like hell.”  Dean scowled and sat up, setting his beer sharply on the coffee table.  “Sam’s not goin’ anywhere near those brats,” he snapped.  “At least one of ‘em’s always got lice and they don’t have any manners.  Sammy doesn’t need parasites and bad influences like that.”

Bobby muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “possessive bastard” and went on applying foam to the window sill.

Still, Dean worried a little about Sam’s vocabulary, but Gabriel finally assured him there were plenty of brain cells and intelligent baby-thoughts in Sam’s head.

“He’s plenty smart,” Gabriel offered one evening as they sat together on the scoured-by-Grace floor of a safari-themed motel room, playing cards and playing with Sam and waiting for John to get back from hustling the locals.  “All kinds of shiny flashy little synapses in there.  It’s just not translating into words quite yet.”

“I figured- Sam, no- get back here, snot face.”  Dean reached out with one arm and snagged Sam around the waist where he was trying to climb up the ratty floor-length curtains.

“Deee,” Sam whined, clinging to Dean’s sleeve and kicking out in an attempt to get back to his Tarzan impression.  Dean’s pile of chips went skidding off to the side but his hold was too firm to wriggle out of, and Sam slumped petulantly over his forearm.

Dean shook him up and down gently.  “I know, I’m just _sooo_ mean, huh?  But that thing’s probably got fifty-year-old mummified flies trapped in it and I don’t want you eating ‘em.”

Sam, still hanging limply over Dean’s arm, blew a spit bubble that soaked quickly and stickily into his sleeve.

“Fine, fine.  You can have your fruit stuff before dinner tonight, okay?”

Gabriel snorted.  “And that, my friend, is why your kid doesn’t talk.  He doesn’t really need to, does he?  Sammykins just coos at you and you take it like a dissertation.”

Dean made a very rude gesture with his free hand.  Gabriel snapped up a chocolate truffle and threw it at his head. Sammy sprang to life and grabbed for the candy.  Dean deftly snatched it away before Sam could get the chocolate to his mouth.  Baby ingenuity often gave angelic reflexes a run for their money, but Dean was pretty used by now to snatching all kinds of inappropriate and inedible things away at the last second.

“Ah ah ah, little man.  You heard Cas, no processed sugars after five o’clock,” he scolded, switching arms and twisting his grip to bring Sammy up eye-to-eye.  Eye to puppy eye, rather.  Dean was not moved.  “No,” he told his whimpering charge.  “Nuh-uh.  We’ve reached a good compromise, Cas and me.  I let him feed you what-the-hell-ever and hold off on the double bacon cheeseburgers ‘til you’re ten, he promises not to try to turn you into into a raw food vegan teetotaler before then.  No rocking the boat by sneaking chocolates after dark.”

“Chocolates after dark,” Gabriel mused, setting his own cards aside so he could stretch his legs out in front of him and lean back on his hands with a wistful expression.  “Pretty sure that was the name of a porno I starred in.”

Dean threw the chocolate back at him.

Cas popped in for a visit just in time to appear in the path of a retaliatory cream pie intended for Dean’s face and let out a startled, angelic shriek that blew two transformers down the road.

Dean clutched Sam to his chest to cover his ears and hide him from the splatter of cream filling released when Castiel reflexively smote the remains of the pie with his sword.

Sammy got bored of waiting for treats and wriggled backwards out of Dean’s grip around his middle to go investigate the lamp plug.

“SAM!”

Anyway, point was, Dean always knew exactly what his kid meant- words or no words.

Trouble was, Sam’s new ability to move around and get himself into trouble meant that John couldn’t leave him alone for so long anymore.  One angel was enough to keep him away from any real danger, and keep little fingers away from where they shouldn’t be; two could even stop him trying to eat things off the gross motel carpets, and usually when they were all together, a guardian, a warrior of Heaven, and an Archangel, the kid might as well have been cocooned in bubble wrap and fleece.  John, though, wasn’t so great at keeping an eye out even when he _was_ there, and the play pen thing clearly wouldn’t work anymore for when he wasn’t.  The next time they settled into a town for a long slow hunt (a witch, obviously, Dean had it figured out in a second if anyone had bothered to ask), John looked into daycare.

The one he picked was small, twelve kids ages two to seven, and run out of a woman’s house.  Dean never saw a number but figured it had to be cheap.  John emptied a duffle bag and packed Sam’s essentials.  Dean packed the things John forgot into his own old leather shoulder bag and zapped into the backseat of the car.  “I hope you checked this place out right,” he grumbled.  Sam looked curiously over at him while John incorrectly ( _still_ , for fuck’s sake) buckled Sam’s car seat.  “I bet you just waved the EMF meter around for a minute, huh?” he yelled as John jogged around to the driver’s door.  “Sprinkled some holy water on the front porch?  Threw a few Christos at her?  Yeah, but did you even check up and see if this lady’s actually LICENSED?”

John started up the car and pulled out onto the road, eyes front.  Dean took the chance to reach over and re-clip Sam’s buckles.

“First aid training?” he continued to his oblivious audience.  “She have child-CPR certification?  You know what kind of food she plans on feedin’ ‘em?  Whether the other kids bite or have fleas?”  Sam giggled when Dean gave him the mandatory poke after clipping and cinching the last strap.  “Yeah, laugh it up,” Dean growled playfully.  “You think I’m gonna help you when you’re all covered in tooth marks and spots?”  He tugged gently at Sam’s staticky hair and grinned as Sammy shrieked and tried to grab his hands, pinned down too tightly in his car seat to reach. 

“Dean!” Sam squealed.

John’s eyes shot up to the rearview mirror.  Dean froze.  “Oh, shit.”

“What’s that, Sammy?” John asked.

“Dean!” Sam yelled helpfully, staring straight at his angel.

“Ohhh, shit,” Dean muttered.  “Fuck.  No.  Sammy, shush.  I am _not here_.”

John’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything, and finally turned back to the road and lapsed into a silence so heavy that even Sam kept quiet.  Dean tickled Sam’s feet when the kid kicked his shoes off and glared at the back of John’s head.  This was _not_ how he wanted to start Sam’s first day at this fucking un-scouted daycare.  Probably a miniature prison camp surrounded by clowns.

He knew this was a good thing, really.  Sam needed to play with kids his own age, not just angels.  All the books agreed on that, even the lame new-wave ones that said Sam shouldn’t have any toys or sweet things because the only reason children act like kids is because they’re not treated like adults.  Yeah.  Like Dean was gonna go along with _that_ one.  If he had his way, Sam would always stay small enough to carry in one arm and never stop acting like a kid, no matter how smart he got.  Gabriel would see to the rest.  Dean had figured out long ago that as long as he grumbled enough and turned away from his brother and baby at strategic moments, Sam could get all the cake and candies he liked, and Dean could shrug off Castiel’s accusing glare with a ‘not my fault!’

John pulled up to the curb in front of a tidy blue-grey ranch-style house with white trim, a plain, mown front lawn with some small flowering shrubs planted along the house, and what looked like a big, fenced back yard.  “You ready, Sam?”  He climbed out and Dean seized the opportunity to shove Sam’s shoes back on his feet, Sammy grumbling and spreading his toes all the while.  John probably wouldn’t notice and would just send him in barefoot.  “Come on, let’s go meet your new friends, huh?”  John carried Sam into the house, bag slung over his arm and Dean hot on his heels.  Sam twisted and reached back over John’s shoulder, stretching his fingers out to Dean.

“De?”

“Yeah, Sammy,” John said absently, juggling his load to get to the door handle.

“’s okay, Sammy,” Dean reassured him.  “You’re gonna have fun today, dude.  You get to play with other kids just as slobbery as you.”

Someone inside came to John’s rescue and opened the door.  A woman stood there smiling at them.

“Sandra?” John asked, and flashed a charming smile that made Dean roll his eyes.  “John Winchester.  This is Sam.  He’s your new boy.”

“Well, hi there, Sam!” The woman said cheerfully.  She didn’t try to touch him, which Dean approved of.  Too many people saw Sam and immediately reached out to ‘shake his hand’ or pat his chubby, rosy cheeks, then got annoyed when the kid freaked and cringed away from the strange hands reaching for him. 

Dean expertly eyed Sandra up and down.  Thirty-five or so, straight brown hair pulled up in a looped ponytail, an extra twenty pounds that she probably gained as baby weight and never got rid of.  No makeup or jewellery save for a couple of stud earrings.  Plain jeans, white and pink tennis shoes, yellow cardigan.  Dean determined she didn’t look like a serial killer and magnanimously decided to give her five minutes to prove her worth.

“Come on in,” Sandra said warmly.  “Let me show you around the place and we'll get Sam settled in.”  She ushered John and Sam inside.  Dean cracked his knuckles and stepped in after them.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go thank '0_carry_on_my_wayward_bitch_0' for the miracle of this chapter's existence.  
> Also, to anyone who's been waiting, especially those of you who have stuck with me all the way from the beginning, thank you. Seriously. I absolutely, genuinely love each of you for not giving up on me (or filling my inbox with torrents of well-deserved abuse). You're all brilliant. Great big virtual hugs to you.  
> Okay, chick flick moment over, go read some story. It's got plot!

“Okay,” Dean said, straightening his back.  Castiel stood in front of him in a drop-shouldered, lopsided parade rest, like he wasn’t quite sure how to mimic his angelic form’s regimental stance when his body came with limbs.  Gabriel slouched back against the motel bed’s headboard with a sucker in his mouth and his stubby little terrier snoozing in his lap.  “So.  Sandra Philips, thirty-eight.  Local.  Dad had a heart attack a few years back and he and her mom moved to Florida after he recovered.  No family history of mental illness or any form of child abuse.  Husband is in the army, currently stationed at a base down in Georgia.  One son, age nineteen, started college this year.  Husband and son both come with good recommendations.  No credit card debt, no debt at all except the son’s student loans.  No criminal record, didn’t go to college herself, known in high school as a good English tutor.  No one in her main circle of high school friends has a criminal record except for a couple of speeding tickets.  Her friends now are mostly army wives, all with clean records and clean pasts except one Michaela Harvey- she got taken down for smoking on school grounds in junior high.  I’ll be looking her up tomorrow.  Sandra considers herself vaguely spiritual but non-religious, she bakes and reads G-rated romance novels in her spare time, and she’s allergic to eucalyptus, so if everything goes downhill we can throw some Vick’s Vapo-rub at her and run.

“Now for the other kids.  From oldest to youngest-“

Gabriel groaned loudly.  “Mmkay, Dean-o.  This whole super-protective streak is cute and all, but I’m not gonna sit here and listen to you list every time twelve children bit their classmates and spit on their parents.  You said this was an emergency.”

Dean stared at him blankly and shook the thick sheaf of notes in his hands.  “It is,” he insisted.  “Dude, I’m seriously worried about this Travis kid.  He kicked a girl off the diving board at his sixth birthday party last summer.”

Gabriel shook his head and glanced over at their brother.  “All yours, Cassie.  I have a banker who’s about to get caught with a blow-up smurf.”  He popped out.

Dean sighed and slumped into one of the creaky chairs at the rickety round side table.  “This wouldn’t be a big deal if you two would just let me _be_ there,” he grumbled.  “Then I could keep an eye on the Travis psycho by myself.”

“You know that Sam needs time away from you,” Cas pointed out, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.  “He has attended day-care for two weeks and his vocabulary has already increased greatly, due to having found himself in a setting where he is required to use his words to communicate rather than thoughts or expressions.”

“Told ya he was smart,” Dean muttered sullenly.  He set his sixty-odd pages of background checks on the table and pushed them aside for later, though.

“He is also regularly using your name,” Castiel continued, finally choosing to perch on the very edge of the bed with his trench coat wrapped tightly around his legs.  “John does not often notice, but Mrs. Philips is more attentive and will begin to wonder who Sam is attempting to engage in conversation.”

“Whom,” Dean whispered, just to be a dick.  He knew Cas had a point, though.  Sam’s clearly-enunciated ‘Deen’s were already making John frown, and Dean wasn’t looking forward to the day the hunter figured out that his boy wasn’t actually slow at all.  Dean didn’t really have a plan for that yet.

“Alright,” he drawled loudly.  “Come on.  If I’m not allowed to do anything for Sam, we’ll work on you for today.”  He heaved himself up out of the chair and slung his jacket over one shoulder.

Castiel stared at him.  A tiny furrow in his forehead radiated his very deep concern.  “What is wrong with me?”

“Living, Cas,” Dean said encouragingly, shooing the other angel towards the door.  “People skills.  Pool.  Drinking.  Women.  Men.  Whatever floats your boat.  Let’s go.”

“I do not have a boat.”

“Dad _knows_ I know that.  We’re gonna find you one, okay?”  When Castiel continued to stand still in confusion, Dean grabbed his sleeve and pulled him outside, letting go when they reached the sidewalk as he thought over his plans.  Maybe he should take Cas to one of those hipster bookstore-slash-coffee-shop places instead of a dive bar this time.  People there might think Cas was being aloof and arty instead of painfully, embarrassingly awkward.  Mind made up, he slapped a palm on Cas’ forehead and zapped them to New York City, keeping a narrow connection of consciousness and Grace fixed steady on Sam.

SPN SPN SPN

“-can’t just _do_ that, Jesus _Christ_ , Cas, haven’t I taught you anything?!”

“Please do not use our Lord’s name in that way.”

“All these months you’ve been doing just fine when I tell you what to do.  Then the first time I turn you loose on your own, the _first time_ , and you decide you’re gonna go pick up chicks and dudes in frickin’ _Salt Lake City_?!”

“I have never seen the lake that the city is named for.  It sounded interesting.”

“Oh, it _is_ interesting, Cas, it’s an amazing piece of Dad’s creation, but it’s _not_ the kind of place you go to pick up dudes!  And you _don’t_ ask where the bars are!”

“I thought you would be pleased that I changed the plan and went to a book and coffee shop of my own volition.”

“Not when you get yourself punched and thrown out!  What the hell did you even _say_ to that guy?”

“I told him that I was there to give an impression of being an ‘aloof and soulful artist,’ so would he like to engage in intercourse.”

Dean gaped at him.  Then he turned around and thudded his head repeatedly off the wall of the motel.  “Fuckin’ Jesus _Christ_.”

“Please do not-“

“Yes, yes, I know.”

Dean banged his head a few more times before he straightened up.  “Okay,” he sighed, and scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair.  “I guess it’s back to square one for next time.  You’re not safe to be out on your own.  Come on, you wanna come in and see Sam before you go back up?  His dad’s in there, though.  Sam’s feeling pretty unhappy right now, I’m guessing Daddy’s tryin’ for some bonding time again.”

Castiel nodded so they left the dingy alley behind the motel that they’d flown into after Cas’ disastrous first try at going out on his own and headed around to the front.  It was only six-thirty or seven, but dusk came early to these Midwestern towns even in early October, so all the lights in the room were blazing through the thin curtains and Dean could see clearly when he peered into the car to make sure John hadn’t forgotten anything important.  Again.  He hadn’t, so Dean nodded to Castiel and they zapped into the room.

They both froze.

Sam was sitting on the floor in the middle of a series of chalk circles drawn on the carpet, filled in and ringed with symbols and runes.  He was naked and black runes that looked like they’d been drawn in sharpie covered his chest.  His legs and the patch of carpet he sat on were wet and from the smell, he’d wet himself since John placed him there.  His wrists and ankles were tied with what looked like bandannas and a third piece of fabric tied the two together so that the toddler couldn’t stand or crawl away.  His eyes were red and filled with tears that ran down his flushed, chubby cheeks, his hair and shirt were soaked on one side, and there was salt stuck on his chin and in his lap like he’d been fed a mouthful of the stuff and spat it out.

John crouched in front of him, just outside the circle, a bowl of leaves and oils in one hand and his lighter in the other.

“Dee _een_ ,” Sam whimpered.

John didn’t respond to his son but started chanting something Dean didn’t even recognize over the bowl.  He caught words about purity, evil, magic, and possession, though, and figured the intent couldn’t be anything too good.  Then John held his lighter to the bowl and set the whole thing on fire.  He waved it close to Sam, chanting the whatever-it-was again and louder.

Sam started to scream as the flames were pushed in front of his face.  “DEEN!  I WANT DEEN!  NOW NOW!  DEEEEN!”                                                                                                                                                                                    

Dean, whatever shock had held him frozen wearing off the second he heard Sam’s cry, lunged forward.  Castiel grabbed his arms and wrenched him back.

“Wait,” he ordered urgently.  “If you appear now he may hurt Sam.  Wait.”

“Oh, you’re gettin’ whatever you’re askin’ for, Sammy,” John snarled.  He set the bowl down inside the circle between him and Sam.  “Or whatever you are, _pretending_ to be Sammy.”

Sam finally caught sight of Dean and Castiel through the smoke and tears clogging his eyes, and he strained forward, almost rolling into the bowl of flames at his tied feet.  “Deen!”

“Is that your master?” John demanded.  “Some demon you’re trying to summon on me?  What the hell are you, and where’s my son?”

“ _Deen_!” Sam wailed.  “Cass!  Dee!”

Dean pulled at Castiel’s grip, but the soldier held on tight.  “Wait,” he insisted, but his voice was a gravelly rasp through gritted teeth.  “What do you think John will do if you take his son invisibly?  He will hunt you and never believe that Sam has not been corrupted.  He needs to know who and what you are.  If you reveal yourself now he may think you to be a product of whatever demon he believes to be possessing his son and hurt Sam.”

Dean knew Cas was right, but that didn’t make it any easier to watch Sam- _his_ _kid_ \- tied up and crying for him and being tortured by his own dad.  He stepped back and shook off Cas’ loosened hold.  “I’ll wait,” he growled.  “Go.  I don’t know how much smoke he’s breathing in or what’s in it, or how much salt Winchester made him eat.  Go get me stuff to calm him down as soon as this shit is over so we can heal him while he’s not already stressed out.”

Cas nodded and turned away, about to leave.

Then John pulled out a knife.

Sam, his teary gaze still fixed on his angels, realized that Cas was about to leave him, and he let out a loud wordless shriek.

John grinned cruelly.  “Oh, so that’s it, is it?  Scared by a little bit of silver, huh?”  He leaned over the chalk marks and grabbed one of Sam’s bound arms, dragging the kid right to the edge of the inner circle and making him cry out again.  “Let’s see what this does to you, huh?”  He brought the tip of the knife to Sam’s forearm.

“ _Enough_!” Dean exploded.  A split second later he knelt before John, fully visible, wings flared out, Sam clutched to his chest.  The boy wailed his name again and tried to throw his arms around Dean, but was held back by the bandannas around his wrists.  Cas appeared next to him and quickly tore through the bindings.  Dead immediately hoisted Sam up higher so the toddler could push his face into Dean’s neck and swept his wings forward and around him to hide Sam from view.  Cas kept his wings held high and threatening overhead.

John stared at them, mouth open.  Then he scrambled for the knife he’d dropped when Dean crashed in.

“No.” Castiel snatched the knife, his grip much too strong for the human to fight him off, and threw it across the room.  He seized John’s wrists in one hand, wrapped his other hand around John’s throat to still him, and held him in place.

“What the hell are you?” John choked out.

“We are angels of the Lord,” Dean barked.  “Castiel is a soldier of Heaven-“

“There are no angels,” John growled.  “You’re just demons, lying-“

“What, you want me to manifest a halo or something?” Dean snapped.  “You know there are demons and Hell.  Why wouldn’t there be angels and Heaven?”

John gurgled a little but didn’t answer, obviously struck by something he’d never bothered to think about.  “If he’s a soldier, what are you?  What do you want with Sam?”

“I am your son’s Guardian angel, appointed by God.  My name is Hesedinel.  Your son calls me _Dean_.”  Dean took vicious pleasure in the way John’s eyes widened in alarm.  “And you have _seriously_ pissed me off.”

He held Sam tightly to him and disappeared.

SPN SPN SPN

The ritual John had attempted to perform on Sam was one that he’d cobbled together himself from bits and pieces of other rituals, summonings, and exorcisms he’d found.  It didn’t work the way he intended, mostly because Sam wasn’t possessed or any kind of monster or demon, but partly because John didn’t know quite what he’d created.  The ritual didn’t purify Sam’s body or banish anything from him.  It did something else instead.

The smoke from the ritual bowl wafted up into the room, through cracks around the windows and door, and out into the open air.  Having no demonic or ghostly presence to bind itself to, the smoke attached to a whisper of Sam’s soul instead.  And since Sam’s soul was already where it was supposed to be, the smoke drifted to the only other place Sam’s soul could be intended to go.

It drifted down to the Cage.

Lucifer had felt the very moment that his vessel had been born.  A slender thread of grace connected the archangel to his vessel- just enough to know that the child was alive, healthy, and happy.  Or unhappy, as the case may be, but those times were blessedly infrequent, as they gave Lucifer a headache.  Fragments of childish wonder and delight filtered down occasionally too, but Lucifer ignored those.  The vessel was a shell;

When the boy was especially joyful and his innocent love blazed down into the Cage, Lucifer usually felt the echo of another angel’s grace, and assumed he’d been given a Guardian.  He half expected himself to begrudge this, but found that he could only be pleased.  Lucifer was the child’s _true_ Guardian, of course, but at least someone was keeping him safe until Lucifer could get there himself.

And he would get there.  Lucifer’s vessel walked the earth; Lucifer’s time to rise was finally near.

Lucifer had felt Sam’s terror and pain as John tied him up, poured holy water on him, forced salt into his mouth, and bellowed exorcisms at him.  He’d thrown himself furiously at the walls of the Cage, trying harder to escape than he had since he’d first been cast down by Michael.  Someone was hurting his vessel, and that someone would _pay_.

Then the fear was overtaken by relief and love, and Lucifer assumed the Guardian angel had rescued the boy.  He settled back to the ground, wishing he knew what- and who- had upset the child so terribly.

Then, for the first time since its creation around Lucifer as he was cast from Heaven, something entered the Cage.

The smoke drifted in, briefly repelled by the laws of Hell that tried to prevent an innocent soul from entering but drawn indelibly along the thread that connected Sam’s soul to the archangel imprisoned, and wreathed the bound form of his Grace.

Lucifer absorbed the smoke and the hint of Sam’s innocent, fated soul.

He smiled.


End file.
